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CAPT. RACKET 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS. 

BY 

Charles Townsend. 

PRICE 25 Cents. 

This latest play by Mr. Townsend will probably be one of his 
most popular productions; it certainly is one of his best. It is 
full of action from start to finish. Comic situations follow one 
after another, and the act-endings are especially strong and 
and lively. Every character is good and affords abundant oppor- 
tunity for effective work. Can be played by four men and three 
women if desired. The same scene is used for all the acts, and it 
is an easy interior. A most excellent play for repertoire com- 
panies. No seeker for a good play can afford to ignore it. 

CHARACTERS. 

Capt. Robert Racket, one of the National Guard. A lawyer 

when he has nothing else to do, and ^liar all the time 

Comedy Lead. 

Obadiah Dawson, his uncle, from Japan "where they make 
tea" Comedy Old Man. 

Timothy Tolman, his friend, who married for money and is 
sorry for it Juvenile Man. 

Mr. DAL,Roy,his father in-law, a jolly old cove Eccentric. 

HoBSON, a waiter from the *'Cafe Gloriana," who adds to the 
confusion Utility. 

Clarice, the Captain's pretty wife, out for a lark, and up to 
"anything awful" Comedy Lead. 

Mrs. Tolman, a lady with a temper, who finds her Timothy 
a vexation of spirit ....Old Woman. 

Katy, a mischievous maid Soubrette. 

Tootsy, the "Kid," Tim's olive branch Props. 

SYNOPSIS. 

ACT. I. Place: Tim's country home on the Hudson near New York. Time: 
A breezy morning in {September. The Captain's fancy takes a flight and 
trouble begins. 

ACT. II. Place; the same: Time; the next morning. How one yam re- 
quires another, "The greatest liar unhung," Now the trouble increases and 
the Captain prepares for war. 

ACT. III. Place: the same. Time: evening of the same day. More miseij. 
A general muddle. "Dance or you'll die." Cornered at last. The Captain 
owns up. All serene. 

Time of playing: Two hours. 

Order a sample copy, and see for yourself what a 
good play it isi 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK 



A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS 



BY 

DION BOUCICAULT 



CHICAGO 
THE DRAMATIC PUBI.ISHING COMPANY 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 






CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Wallack^s Theatre, December, 1857 

Captain Fairweather, Mr. Blake. 

If ^2 Gideon Bloodgood, ... .Mr. Norton. 

Badger, Mr. Lester. 

r^u^ Mark Livingstone, Mr. Sothern. 

"^•^ Paul, Mr. A. H. Davenport 

(^^^ Puffy, Mr. Sloan. 

"^^^^^Dan Mr. T. B. Johnson. 

^'^-^ Daniels, Mr. Tree. 

Edwards, Mr. Levere. 

-'■ Mrs. Fairweather, Mrs. Blake. 

Mrs. Puffy, Mrs. Cooke. 

Alida, Mrs. Hoey. 

Lucy, Mrs. J. H. Allen. 



Costumes — Mod 



ern. 



The first act occurs during the commercial panic of 1837. The re- 
mainder of the drama takes place during the panic of 1857. 



STAGE DIRECTIONS. 

L. means First Entrance, Left. R. First Entrance, Right. S. E. L. 
Second Entrance, Left. S. E. R. Second Entrance, Right. U. E. L. 
Upper Entrance, Left. U. E. R. Upper Entrance, Right. C. Cejitre. 
L. C. Le/t Centre. R. C. Right of Centre. T. E. L. Third Enti-ance, 
Left. T. E. R. Third Entrance, Right. C. D. Centre Door. D. R. 
Door Right. D. L. Door Left. U. D. L. Upper Door, Left. U. D. R. 
Upper Door, Right. D. F. Door in fiat. 

*^* The reader is supposed to be on the stage, facing the audience. 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 



ACT I. 
The Panic of 1837. 



Scene. — The private office of a banking house in New York j 
door at back, leading to the bank ; door L. H., leading to a 
side street. Gideon Bloodgood seated, c, at desk. 

[Enter Edwards, l. h. d. f., with a sheet of paper ^ 

Edw. The stock list, sir ; — second board of brokers. 

Blood. [Rising eagerly .^ Let me see it. Tell the cashier 
to close the bank on the stroke of three, and dismiss the clerks. 
[Reads. Exit Edwards.] So — as I expected, every stock is 
down further still, and my last effort to retrieve my fortune has 
plunged me into utter ruin ? [Cries hes up the paper. \ To- 
morrow, my drafts to the amount of eighty thousand dollars 
will be protested. To-morrow, yonder street, now so still, will 
be filled with a howling multitude, for the house of Bloodgood, 
the banker, will fail, and in its fall will crush hundreds, 
thousands, who have their fortunes laid up here. 

[Re-enter Edwards.] 

Edw. Here are the keys of the safe, sir, and the vault. 
[Leaves keys on desk and shows a check to Bloodgood.] The 
building committee of St. Peter's new church have applied for 
your donation. It is a thousand dollars. 

Blood. Pay it. [Exit Edwards.] To-morrow, New York 
will ring from Union Square to the Battery with the news — 
" Bloodgood has absconded " — but to-morrow 1 shall be safe on 
board the packet for Liverpool — all is prepared for my Hight 
with my only care in life, my only hope — my darling child — 
her fortune secure [Rises?^ The affair will blow over ; 

3 



4 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Blooclgood's bankruptcy will soon be forgotten in the whirl of 
New York trade, but Alida, my dear Alida, will be safe from 
want. 

\Re-enter Edwards.] 

Edw. Here, sir, are the drafts on the Bank of England, 
$70,000. \Hands papers to Bloodgood, who places them in his 
pocket-book.] 

Blood. Are the clerks all gone ? 

Edw. All, sir, except Mr. Badger. 

Blood. Badger! the most negligent of all ! That is strange. 

Edw. His entries are behindhand, he says, and he is 
balancing his books. 

Blood. Desire him to come to me. [Sits. Exit Edwards.] 

\Enter Badger, smoking cigar.] 

Bad. You have asked for me ? 

Blood, Yes ; you are strangely attentive to business to-day, 
Mr. Badger. 

Bad. Everything has a beginning. 

Blood. Then you will please to begin to-morrow. 

Bad. To-morrow ! no sir, my business must be done 
to-day. Carpe diem — niake most of to-day — that's my phil- 
osophy. 

Blood. Mr. Badger, philosophy is not a virtue in a banker's 
clerk. 

Bad. Think not ? 

Blood. [Impatiently.] Neither philosophy nor impertinence. 
You are discharged from my employment. 

Bad. Pardon me ! I do not catch the precise word. 

Blood. [Sternly.] Go, sir, go ! I discharge you. 

Bad. Go ! — discharge me ? I am still more in the dark. I 
can understand my services not being required in a house that 
goes on, but where the house is ready to burst up the formality 
of telling a clerk he is discharged does seem to me an unneces- 
sary luxury. 

Blood. [Troubled. \ I do not understand you, sir. 

Bad. [Seating himself on a desk, deliberately dangling his 
legs^ No ! well I'll dot my i's and cross my t's, and make 
myself plain to the meanest capacity. In business there are two 
ways of getting rich, one hard, slow and troublous : this is 
called labor 

Blood. Sir ! 

Bad. Allow me to finish. The other easy, quick and 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 5 

demanding nothing but a pliant conscience and a daring mind 
— is now pleasantly denominated financiering — but when New 
York was honest, it was called fraudulent bankruptcy, that was 
before you and I were born. 

Blood. What do you mean ? 

Bad. I mean that for more than two years I have watched 
your business transactions ; when you thought me idle, my eyes 
were everywhere : in your books, in your safe, in your vaults ; 
if you doubt me question me about your operations for the last 
three months. 

Blood, This is infamous ! 

Bad. That is precisely the word I used when I came to the 
end of your books. 

Edw. [Oii/sti/e.] This way, sir. 

[En/er Edwards, Ti'if/i Captain Fairweather.J 

Blood. [To Badger, ^'n alarm.] Not a word. 

Bad. AH right. 

Edw. [Introducing Captain Fairweather.J This is Mr. 
Bloodgood. 

Capt. Glad to see you, sir. You will pardon my intruding 
at an hour when the bank, I am told, is closed. 

Blood. I am at your service, sir. \He inakcs a sign for 
Badger to retire, but the latter re7nains.'\ 

Bad. [7^^ Captain.] You may speak, sir; Mr. Bloodgood 
has no secrets from me. I am in his confidence. 

Capt. [Sits.] I am a sea captain, in the India trade. My 
voyages are of the longest, and thus I am obliged to leave my 
wife and two children almost at the mercy of circumstances. I 
was spending a happy month with my darlings at a little cozy 
place I have at Yonkers while my ship was loading, when this 
infernal commercial squall set in — all my fortune, $100,000, the 
fruits of thirty years' hard toil — was invested in the United 
States Bank — it was the livelihood of my wife — the food of my 
little children — I hurried to my brokers and sold out. I saved 
myself just in time. 

Blood. I admire your promptitude. 

Capt. To-morrow I sail for China ; for the last three weeks 
I have worried my brains to think how I should bestow my 
money — to-day I bethought me of your house — the oldest in 
New York — your name stands beyond suspicion, and if I leave 
this money in your hands, I can sleep nightly with the happy 
assurance that whatever happens to me, my dearest ones are 
safe. 



6 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Bad. You may pull your nightcap over your ears with that 
established conviction. 

Capt. Now, I know your bank is closed, but if you will 
accept this money as a special deposit, I will write to you how 
1 desire it to be invested hereafter. 

Blood. [Pi'Hsrc'e.] You have a family ? 

Capt, Don't talk of them — tears of joy come into my eyes 
whenever I think of those children — and my dear wife, the 
patient, devoted companion of the old sailor, whose loving voice 
murmurs each evening a prayer for those who are on the sea ; 
and my children, sir, two little angels ; one a fair little thing 
—we call her Lucy — she is the youngest — all red and white 
like a little bundle ot flowers ; and my eldest — my son Paul — we 
named him after Paul Jones — a sailor's whim ; well, sir, when 
the ship is creaking and groaning under my feet, when the 
squall drives the hail and sleet across my face, amidst the 
thunder, I only hear three voices — through the gloom I can see 
only three faces, pressed together like three angels waiting for 
me in heaven, and that heaven is my home. But, how I do 
talk, sir — forgetting that these things can't interest you. 

Blood. They do, more than you imagine. I, too, have a 
child — only one — a motherless child ! 

Capt. Ain't it good to speak of the little beings ? Don't it 
fill the heart like a draught of sweet water ? My darling tor- 
ments, here is their fortune — I have it in my hand — it is here — 
I have snatched it from the waves ; I have won it across the 
tempest ; I have labored, wrestled, and suffered for it ; but it 
seemed nothing, for it was for them. Take it, sir. [Ne /lands a 
pockei-book.'] In this pocket-book you will find one hundred 
thousand dollars. May I take your receipt, and at once depart 
for my vessel ? 

Bad. [Aside] This is getting positively interesting. 

Blood. Your confidence flatters me, sir. You desire to 
place this money with me as a special deposit ? 

Capt. If you please. Will you see that the amount is 
correct ? 

Blood. {Counting.'] Mr. Badger, prepare the receipt. 

Bad. {W7'itingi\ "New York, 13th of December, 1837, 

Received, on special deposit, from " [7]? Captain.] Your 

name, sir ? 

Capt. Captain Fairweather, of the ship Paul and Lucy, of 
New York. 

Bad. {Writing?^ Captain Fairweather, of the ship • 

Blood. One hundred thousand dollars — quite correct. 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 7 

Bad. {^Handing receipt to Bloodgood, cind watching him 
closely as he takes the pen. \ Please sign the receipt. YAside.'\ 
His hand does not tremble, not a muscle moves. What a 
magnificent robber ! 

Blood. [71? Captain.] Here is your receipt. 

Capt. A thousand thanks. Now I am relieved of all trouble. 

Bad. {^Aside^ That's true. 

Capt. I must return in haste to the Astor House, where I 
dine with my owners at four — I fear I am late. Good-day, Mr. 
Bloodgood. 

Blood. Good-day, Captain, and a prosperous voyage to you. 
\Exit Captain Fairweather. Badger opens ledger.] What 
are you doing, Mr. Badger. 

Bad. I am going to enter that special deposit in the ledger. 

Blood. Mr. Badger ! 

Bad. Mr. Bloodgood ? 

Blood. [^Brings him down.] I have been deceived in you. 
I confess I did not know your value. 

Bad, [Afodestlf.] Patience and perseverance, sir, tells in 
the long run. 

Blood. Here are one thousand dollars — I present them to 
you for your past services. 

Bad. [Takes the money, and walks over to the ledger on 
the desk, which he closes significantly.] And for the present 
service ? 

Blood. What do you mean ? 

Bad. My meaning is as Clear as Croton. I thought you 
were going to fail — I see I was wrong — you are going to 
abscond. 

Blood. Mr. Badger ! this language 

Bad. This deposit is special ; you dare not use it in your 
business ; your creditors cannot touch it — ergo, you mean to 
make a raise and there's but one way — absconsion 1 absquatu- 
lation. 

Blood. \SniiHng.\ It is possible that this evening I may 
take a little walk out of town. 

Bad, In a steamboat t 

Blood. Meet me at Peck Slip, at five o'clock, and I will hand 
you double the sum I gave you. 

Bad. [Aside.] In all three thousand dollars. 

[Re-enter Edwards.] 

Edw. Your daughter, sir ; Miss Alida is in the carriage at 
the door and is screaming to be admitted. 



8 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Blood. Tell the nurse to pacify her for a few moments. 

Edw. She dare not, sir ; Miss Alida has torn nurse's face in 
a fearful manner already. [E.ri/.] 

Bad. Dear, high-spirited child ! If she is so gentle now, 
what will she be when she is twenty, and her nails are fully 
developed ! 

Blood, \Ta/:es /laf.] I will return immediately. [Exif.] 

Bad. {Following Bloodgood ivith his eyes?[ Oh, nature, 
wonderful mistress ! Keep close to your daughter, Bloodgood, for 
she is your master ! Ruin, pillage, rob fifty families to make her 
rich with their misery, happy in their tears. I watched him as 
he received the fortune of that noble old sailor — not a blink — 
his heart of iron never quailed ; but in this heart of iron there is 
a straw, a weakness by which it may be cracked, and that 
weakness is his own child — children ! They are the devil in 
disguise. I have not got any except my passions, my vices — a 
large family of spoilt and ungrateful little devils, who threaten 
their loving father with a prison. 

Edw. [ Outside?^ I tell you, sir, he is not in. 

Capt. \Oiitside?\^ Let me pass, I say. {He enters very 
much agitated.] Where is he ? Where is he ? 

Bad. \Surprised.'\ What is the matter, sir ? 

Capt. Mr. Bloodgood — I must see him— speak to him this 
instant, do you not hear me ? 

Bad. But 

Capt. He has not gone. 

Bad. Sir 

Capt. Ah, he is here ! 

[Re-enter Bloodgood.] 

Blood. What is the meaning of this .? 

Capt. Ah ! you — it is you — [Trying to restrain his cmotioji.^ 
Sir, I have changed my mind ; here is your receipt ; have the 
goodness to return me the deposit I — I — left with you. 

Blood. Sir ! 

Capt. I have another investment for this sum, and I — beg 
you to restore it to me. 

Blood. Restore it ! you have a very strange way, sir, of 
demanding what is due to you. 

Capt. It is true ; pardon me, but I have told you it is all! 
possess. It is the fortune of my wife, of my children, of my 
brave Paul, and my dear little Lucy. It is their future happiness, 
their life ! Listen, sir ; I will be frank with you. Just now, on 
returning to my hotel, I found the owners of my ship waiting 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 9 

dinner for me, well, they were speaking as merchants will 
speak of each other — your name was mentioned — I listened — 
and they said — it makes me tremble even now— they said there 
were rumors abroad to-day that your house was in peril. 

Blood. I attach no importance, sir, to idle talk. 

Capt. But I attach importance to it, sir. How can I leave 
the city with this suspicion on my mind that perhaps I have 
compromised the future of my family. 

Blood. Sir ! 

Capt. Take back your receipt, and return me my money. 

Blood. You know, sir, that it is after banking hours. Return 
to-morrow. 

Capt. No. You received my deposit after banking hours. 

Blood. I am not a paying teller, to count out money. 

Capt. You did not say so when you counted it in. 

[Enter Edwards.] 

Edw. The driver says you will be late for the— 

Blood. [Trying to stop hini.\ That will do. [Exit Ed- 
wards. ] 

Capt. What did he say ? [Runs to the window.] A 
carriage at the door 

Bad. [Aside.'] Things are getting complicated here. 

Capt. Yes — I see it all. He is going to fly with the fortunes 
and savings of his dupes ! [Tearing his cravat .^^ Ah ! I shall 
choke ! [Eiirioiisly to Bloodgood.] But I am here, villain, I 
am here in time ! 

Blood. Sir ! 

Capt. To-morrow, you said — return to-morrow — but to- 
morrow you will be gone. [Precipitates himself on BloodgOOd.J 
My money, my money ! I will have it this instant ! Do not 
speak a word, it is useless, I will not listen to you. My money, 
or I will kill you as a coward should be killed. Robber ! Thief! 

Bad. [Aside.] Hi ! hi ! This is worth fifty cents — reserved 
seats extra. 

Blood. [Disengaging hinise//.] Enough of this scandal. 
You shall have your money back again. 

Capt. Give it me — ah ! — [hi pain.] My head ! [7b Bloodgood.] 
Be quick, give it to me, and let me go. [Staggeritig and put- 
ting his hands to his face.] My God ! what is this strange 
feeling which overcomes me. 

Bad. He is falling, what's the matter of him ? [Captain F. 
fa/ is in chair, c] 



lO THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Blood. His face is purple. [^Takts pocket-book and coM' 
moiccs to count out money. Soft niusic to end of act.'] 

Capt. I Tixw suffocating; some air. I cannot see; every- 
thing is black before my eyes. Am I dying .'' Oh, no, no ! it 
cannot be, I will not die. I must see them again. Some 
water — quick ! Come to me — my wife — my children ! Where 
are they that I cannot fold them in my arms ! \He looks 
strangely^ a7id fearfully into the face ^ Bloodgood /(^r an 
instant^ a?:d then breaks into a loud sob.^ Oh, my children — 
my poor, poor, little children ! \After some convulsive efforts 
to speak his eyes become fixed.\ 

Blood. \Distracted?^ Some one run for help. Badger, a 
doctor, quick. 

Bad. \Standing ^7/^;- Captain.] All right, sir, I have studied 
medicine — that is how I learned most of my loose habits. {^Ex- 
amines the Captain's /?//jt' and eyes ?\^ It is useless, sir. He is 
dead. 

Blood. \Horrified.\ Dead! ]^^qq^^(sqQ^% attitude is one of 
extreme horror. This position gradually relaxes as he begins 
to see the advantages that will result from the Captain's 
death.] Can it be possible ? 

Bad. {Tearing open the Captain's vest. The receipt falls 
on the ground.] His heart has ceased to beat — congestion in 
all its diagnostics. 

Blood. Dead ! 

Bad. Apoplexy — the symptoms well developed — the causes 
natural, over-excitement and sudden emotion. 

Blood. \Relaxi71g into an attitude of ciuming.] Dead ! 

Bad. You are spared the agony of counting out his money. 

Blood. Dead ! 

Bad. {Sees receipt on ground.] Ha ! here is the receipt ! 
Signed by Bloodgood. As a general rule never destroy a re- 
ceipt — there is no knowing when it may yet prove useful. 
{Picks it up, and puts it in his pocket.] 

{Tableau.] 

END OF ACT I. 



THE STREETS OF NEW VORK. II 

(A lapse of tweiitj' years is supposed to intervene between the first and second acts.) 

ACT II. 
The Panic of 1857. 
Scene I. — The Pa7-k, near Tammany Hall. 
[Enter Livingstone.] 

Liv. Eight o'clock in the morning. For the last hour I have 
been hovering round Chatham Street — I wanted to sell my over- 
coat to some enterprising Israelite, but I could not muster the 
courage to enter one of those dens. Can I realize the fact ? 
Three months ago, I stood there, the fashionable Mark Living- 
stone, owner of the Waterwitch yacht, one of the original stock- 
holders in the Academy of Music, and now, burst up, sold out, 
and reduced to breakfast off this coat. \Feels in the pocket.'] 
What do I feel ? a gold dollar — undiscovered in the Raglan of 
other days! [^Withdratus his hand.] No ; 'tis a five-cent 
piece ! 

\Enter Puffy with a hot-potato arrangement.] 

Puffy. Past eight o'clock ! I am late this morning. 

Liv. I wonder what that fellow has in his tin volcano — it 
smells well. Ha ! what are those funny things ? Ah ! 

Puflfy. Sweet potatoes, sir. 

Liv. Indeed. [Aside.] If the Union Club saw me — [Looks 
round.] No : 1 am incog — hunger cries aloud. Here goes. 

Puffy. Why, bless me, if it ain't Mr. Livingstone ! 

Liv. The devil ! He knows me — I dare not eat a morsel. 

Puffy. I'm Puffy, sir ; the baker that was — in Broadway — 
served you, sir, and your good father afore you. 

Liv. Oh, Puffy — ah, true. [Aside.] I wonder if I owe him 
anything. 

Puffy. Down in the world now, sir — over-speculated like the 
rest on 'em. I expanded on a new-fangled oven, that was to 
bake enough bread in six hours to supply the whole United 
States — got done brown in it myself — subsided into Bowery — 
expanded again on waffles, caught, a second time — obliged to 
contract into a twelve-foot front on Division Street. Airs. P. 
tends the indoor trade — I do a locom.otive business in potatoes, 
and we let our second floor. My son Dan sleeps with George 
Washington No. 4, w^hile Mrs. P. and I make out under the 
counter ; Mrs. P., bein' wide, objects some, but I says — says I 



12 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

" My clear, everybody must contract themselves in these here 
hard times." 

Liv. So you are poor now, are you ? [Takes a potato, 
piayfully.\ 

Puffy. Yes, sir ; I ain't ashamed to own it — for I hurt no- 
body but myself. Take a little salt, sir. But, Lord bless you, 
sir, poverty don't come amiss to me — I've got no pride to sup- 
port. Now. there's my lodgers 

Liv. Ah, your second floor. 

Puffy. A widow lady and her two grown children — poor as 
mine, but proud, sir — they was grand folks once ; you can see 
that by the way they try to hide it. Mrs. Fairweather is a ■ 

Liv. Fairweather — the widow of a sea captain, who died 
here in New York, twenty years ago ? itfjlk 

Puffy. Do you know my lodgers ? \:^^ 

Liv. Three months ago they lived in Brooklyn — Paul had^. 
clerkship in the Navy Yard. 

Puffy. But when the panic set in, the United States govern- 
ment contracted — it paid off a number of employees, and Mr. 
Paul was discharged. 

Liv. They are reduced to poverty and I did not know it. 
No, how could I. [Aside.] Since my ruin I have avoided 
them. [A/oud.] And Lucy — I mean Miss Fairweather ? 

Puffy. She works at a milliner's in Broadway — bless her 
sweet face and kind smile— me and my wife, we could bake our- 
selves into bread afore she and they should come to want ; and 
as for my boy Dan — talk of going through tire and water for 
her — he does that every night for nothing. Why, sir, you can't 
say " Lucy," but a big tear will come up in his eye as big as a 
cartwheel, and then he'll let out an almighty cuss, that sounds 
like a thousand o' brick. 

[E7itcr Paul and'^x^. Fairweather, dressed in black.] 

Liv. Oh ! [In confusion hides the potato in his pocket, 
and hums an air as he walks away. Aside.] I wonder if they 
know me. 

Mrs. F. Ah, Mr. Puffy. 

Puffy. What, my second floor ! Mrs. Fairweather — good- 
morning, Mr. Paul ; I hope no misfortune has happened — you 
are dressed in mourning. 

Mrs. F. This is the anniversary of my poor husband's death ; 
this day, twenty years ago, he was taken away from us — we keep 
it sacred to his memory. 

PauL It was a fatal day for us. When my father left home 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 1 3 

he had $100,000 on his person — when he was found lying dead 
on the sidewalk of Liberty Street, he was robbed of all. 

Mrs. F. From that hour misfortune has tracked us — we have 
lost our friends. 

Puffy. Friends — that reminds me — why, where is Mr. Living- 
stone — there's his coat 

Paul. Livingstone ! 

Puffy. We were talking of you, when you came up. He 
slipped away, 

\Re-enter Livingstone.] 

Liv. I think I dropped my coat. [Recognizing them ?^ Paul — 
am I mistaken ? 

Mrs. F. No, Mr. Livingstone. 

PauL Good-morning, sir. 

Liv. Sir ! — Mr. Livingstone ! — have I offended you ? 

PauL We could not expect you to descend to visit us in our 
poor lodging. 

Mrs. F. We cannot afford the pleasure of your society. 

Liv. Let me assure you that I was ignorant of your misfor- 
tunes — and if I have not called — it was because — a — because — 
\Aside^ What shall I say, \Aloud.\ I have been absent 
from the city ; — may I ask how is your sister? 

Paul. My sister Lucy is now employed in a millinery store 
in Broadway — she sees you pass the door every day. 

Liv. [Aside.^ The devil — I must confess my ruin, or appear 
a contemptible scoundrel. 

Paul. Livingstone — I cannot conceal my feelings, we were 
schoolmates together — and I must speak out 

Liv. \Aside.\ I know what is coming. 

Paul. I'm a blunt New York boy, and have something of the 
old bluff sailor's blood in my veins — so pardon me if I tell you 
that you have behaved badly to my sister Lucy. 

Liv. For many months I was a daily visitor at your house — 
I loved your sister. 

Paul. You asked me for Lucy's hand — I gave it, because I 
loved you as a brother — not because you were rich. 

Liv. [Aside] To retrieve my fortunes so that I might 
marry — 1 speculated in stocks and lost all I possessed. To en- 
rich Lucy and her family I involved myself in utter ruin. 

Paul. The next day I lost my clerkship — we were reduced 
to poverty, and you disappeared. 

Liv. I can't stand it — I will confess all — let me sacrifice 
every feeling but Lucy's love and your esteem 



14 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Mrs. F. Beware, Mr. Livingstone, how you seek to renew 
our acquaintance : recollect my daughter earns a pittance 
behind a counter — I take in work, and Paul now seeks for the 
poorest means of earning an honest crust of bread. 

Liv. And what would you say if I were no better off than 
yourselves — if I too were poor — if I 

Puffy. You, poor, you who own a square mile of New York ? 

[Enter Bloodgood.J 

Liv. Mr. Bloodgood ! 

Blood. Ah, Livingstone — why do you not call to see us ? You 
know our address — Madison Square — my daughter Alida will be 
delighted. — By the way — I have some paper of yours at the bank, 
it comes due to-day — ten thousand dollars, I think — you bank at 
the Chemical ? 

Liv. Yes, I do — that is did, — bank there. 

Slood. Why don't you bank with me, a rich and careless 
fellow like you— with a large account. 

Liv. Yes — I — [Asidc.]^ He is cutting the ground from under 
my feet. 

PauL Mr. Bloodgood — pardon me, sir, but I was about to 
call on you to-day to solicit employment. 

Blood. I'm full, sir, — indeed I think of reducing salaries, 
everybody is doing so. 

Liv. But you are making thousands a week ! 

Blood. That is no reason that I should not take advantage of 
the times — [Recogfiizing Puf^J Ah, Mr. Puffy, that note of 
yours. 

Puffy. Oh, Lord ! [Aside.] It is the note Mrs. Fairweather 
gave me for her rent. 

Blood. My patience is worn out. 

Puffy. It's all right, sir. 

Blood. Take care it is. [Exit.'] 

Puffy. There goes the hardest cuss that ever went to law. 

Liv. Paul — my dear friend — will you believe me — my feel- 
ings are the same toward you — nay more tender, more sincere 
than ever — but there are circumstances I cannot explain. 

Mrs. F. Mr. Livingstone, say no more — we ask no explana- 
tion. 

Liv. But I ask something — let me visit you — let me return 
to the place that I once held in your hearts. 

Puffy. 219 Division Street — Puffy, baker. Dinner at half- 
past one — come to-day, sir — do, sir, 

Paul. We cannot refuse you. 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 1 5 

Mrs. F. I will go to Lucy's store and let her know. Ah ! 
Mr, Livingstone — she has never confessed that she loved you — 
but you will find her cheek paler than it used to be. \^Exii.] 

Paul. And now to hunt for work — to go from office to office 
pleading for employment — to be met always with the same an- 
swer — "we are full "—or " we are discharging hands" — Liv- 
ingstone, I begin to envy the common laborer who has no fears, 
no care, beyond his food and shelter — I am beginning to lose 
my pity for the poor. 

Liv. The poor ! — whom do you call the poor ? Do you know 
them } do you see them ? they are more frequently found under 
a black coat than under a red shirt. The poor man is the clerk 
with a family, forced to maintain a decent suit of clothes, paid 
for out of the hunger of his children. The poor man is the 
artist who is obliged to pledge the tools of his trade to buy 
medicine for his sick wife. The lawyer who, craving for em- 
ployment, buttons up his thin paletot to hide his shirtless breast. 
These needy wretches are poorer than the poor, for they are 
obliged to conceal their poverty with the false mask of content 
— smoking a cigar to disguise their hunger — they drag from 
their pockets their last quarter, to cast it with studied carelessness 
to the beggar, whose mattress at home is lined with gold. 
These are the most miserable of the Poor of New York. \A 
small crowd has assembled round Livingstone during this 
speech ; they take him for an orator j one of them takes down 
what he says on tablets.l^ 

[Enter Policeman.] 

Puffy and crowd. Bravo — Bravo — Hurrah — get on the 
bench ! 

Police. Come — I say — this won't do. 

Liv. What have I done? 

Police. No stumping to the population allowed m the Park. 

Liv. Stumping ! 

Reporter. Oblige me with your name, sir, for the Herald .-* 

Liv. Oh ! [Rjishes off, followed by Paul.] 

Scene IL — Exterior of Bloodgood's Ba?ik, N'assau Street. 

[Enter Bloodgood.] 

Blood. [Looking at papers.'] Four per cent, a month — ha ! 
if this panic do but last, I shall double my fortune ! Twenty 
years ago this very month — ay, this very day — I stood in yonder 



l6 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

bank a ruined man. Shall I never forget that night — when I 
and my accomplice carried out the body of the old sailor and 
laid it there ! [Points L.] I never pass this spot without a 
shudder. But his money — that founded my new fortune. 
[Enter Alida.] Alida, my dear child what brings you to this 
part ot the city ? 

Alida. I want two thousand dollars. 

Blood. My dearest child, I gave you five hundred last week. 

Alida. Pooh ! what's five hundred ? You made ten thou- 
sand in Michigan Southern last week — I heard you tell Mr. 
Jacob Little so. 

Blood. But 

Alida. Come, don't stand fooling about it ; go in and get 
the money — I must have it. 

Blood. Well, my darling, if you must. Will you step in ? 

Alida. Not I. I'm not going into your dirty bank. I've 
seen all your clerks — they're not worth looking at. 

Blood. I'll go and fetch it. [Exit.'] 

Alida. This is positively the last time I will subinit to this 
extortion. [Opens a letter ajid reads ?\^ " My adored Alida — I 
fly to your exquisite feet ; I am the most wretched of men. Last 
night, at Hall's, I lost two thousand dollars — it must be paid 
before twelve o'clock. Oh, my queen ! my angel ! invent some 
excuse to get this money from your father, and meet me at 
Maillard's at half-past eleven. When shall we meet again 
alone, in that box at the opera, where I can press my lips to 
your superb eyes, and twine my hands in your magnificent 
hair ? Addio carissinia ! The Duke of Calcavella." I 
wonder if he showed that to any of his friends before he sent 
it? 

[Re-enter Bloodgood, /(^/^'rct'^/ by Puffy.] 

Blood. I tell you, sir, it must be paid. I have given you 
plenty of time. 

Puffy. You gave me the time necessary for you to obtain 
execution in the Marine Court. 

Blood. Alida, my love, there is a drait tor the money. 
[Gives her notes. She takes thein.^ And now you will do me 
a favor? Do not be seen a])out so much, in public, with that 
foreign duke. 

Alida. 1 never ask you for a draft ])ut you always give me a 
pill to take with it. 

Blood. I don't like him. 

Alida. I do— bye-bye. [Exit.] 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 1 7 

Blood, How grand she looks ! Thai girl possesses my 
whole heart. 

Puffy. Reserve a little for me, sir. This here note, it was 
give to me by my second floor in payment of rent. It's as good 
as gold, sir — when they are able to pay it. I'd sooner have 
it 

Blood. Mr. Puffy, you are the worst kind of man ; you are 
a weak, honest fool, you are always failing — always the dupe of 
some new swmdier. 

Puffy. Lord love you, sir ! if you was to see the folks you 
call swindlers — the kindest, purest second floor as ever drew 
God's breath. I told them that this note was all right— for if 
they know'd I was put about along of it, I believe they'd sell 
the clothes off" their backs to pay it. 

Blood. [Aside.] This fellow is a fool. But I see, if I levy 
execution the note will be paid, [A/otid.] Very good, Mr. 
Puffy. I will see about it. 

Puffy. You will ! I knew it — there — when folks says you're 
a hard man — I says — no — no more'n a rich man's got to be. 

Blood. Very good. [Aside.] I'll put an execution on his 
house at once. [A/oud.] Good-morning, Mr. Puffy. [Exif.] 

Puflfy. Good-morning, sir. So, I'm floated off that mud 
bank. Lord ! if he had seized my goods and closed me up — 
I'd never a dared to look Mrs. Fairweather in the face agin. 
[£xit.] 

Scene III. — T/ie interior ^/Puffy's house. A poor but neat 
room — window at back. Mrs. Fairweather is arranging 
dinfter. 

[Enter Lucy, wit/i a box.] 

Lucy. My dear mother. 

Mrs. F. My darling Lucy. Ah, your eye is bright again. 
The thought of seeing Mark Livingstone has revived your 
smile. 

Lucy. I have seen him. He and Paul called at Madame 
Victorine's. 

Mrs. F. Is your work over, Lucy, already ? 

Lucy. What we expected has arrived, mother. This dress 
is the last I shall receive from Madame Victorine — she is dis- 
charging her hands. 

Mrs. F. More misfortunes — and Paul has not been able to 
obtain employment. 
2 



1 8 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

{Enter Mrs. Puffy.] 

Mrs. P. ^I'^iy I come in ? It's only Mrs. Puffy. I've been 
over the oven for two hours ! Knowing you had company — I've 
got a pigeon pie — such a pie ! — um — oo — mutton kidneys in it 
— and hard biled eggs — love ye ! — then I've got a chicken, done 
up a w^ay of my own ! I'll get on a clean gown and serve it up 
myself. 

Mrs. F. But, my dear Mrs. Puffy — really we did not mean to 
incur any expense 

Mrs, P. Expense ! why, wasn't them pigeons goin' to waste 
— they was shot by Dan — and we can't abide pigeons, neither 
Puffy nor I. Then the rooster was running round — always 
raisin' hereafter early in the mornm' — a noosance, it was 

S^Entcr Dan.] 

Dan. Beg pardon ladies — I just stepped in 

Lucy. Good-day, Dan. 

Dan. Day, miss! {Aside to Mrs. Pufty.] Oh! mother, 
ain't she pootty this mornin' ? 

Mrs. P. [Smoothing her hair.'] What have you got there, 
Dan'el ? 

Dan. When I was paying the man for them birds [Mrs. 

P. kicks him.] Creation ! mother — you're like the stocks — you 
can't move a'thout crushin' somebody — well, he'd got this here 
pair o' boots ornder his arm — why, ses I, if ever dere was a foot 
created small enough to go into them, thar, it is Miss Lucy's — 
so I brought them for you to look at. 

Lucy. They are too dear for me, Dan, pray give them back. 

Dan. Well, ye see — the man has kinder gone, miss — he said 
he'd call again — some time next fall ■ 

Mrs. F. Dan — Mrs. Puffy — you are good, kind, dear souls 
— when the friends of our better days have deserted us — when 
the rich will scarcely deign to remember us — you, without any 
design, but with the goodness of God in your hearts — without 
any hope but that of hiding your kindness, you help me. Give 
me your hands —I owe you too much already — but you must 
bestow on us no more out of your poverty. 

Mrs. P. Lord, Mrs. ! just as if me and Puffy could bestow 
anything — and what's Dan tit for ? 

Dan. Yes — what's I'm fit for ? 

Mrs. F. Well, I will accept your dinner to-day on one con- 
dition—that you will all dine with us. 

Mrs. P. Oh — my ! Dine with up-town folks ! 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. I9 

Lucy. Ves indeed, Dan, you must. 

Dan. Lord, miss ! I ain't no account at dinin' with folks — I 
take my food on the fust pile of bricks, anyhow. 

Mrs. P. I'm accustomed to mine standin', behind the 
counter. 

Dan. We never set down to it, square out — except on 
Sundays. 

Mrs. P. Then it don't seem natural — we never eat, each of 
us is employed a helping of the other. 

Dan. I'll hx it ! Father, and mother, and I, will all wait on 
you. 

Lucy. [Laughing.] That's one way of dining together, 
certainly. 

[Enfer Paul and Livingstone.] 

Liv. Here we are. Why, what a comfortable little cage 
this is 1 

Dan. Let me take your coat and hat, sir. 

Liv. Thank you. [Exit Dan and Mrs. Puffy.] How like 
the old times, eh, Lucy ? [Sits by her.] 

Mrs. F. [Aside to PauL] Well, Paul, have you obtained 
employment ? 

PauL No, mother ; but Livingstone is rich — he must have 
influence, and he will assist me. 

Mrs. F. Heaven help us I I fear that the worst has not 
come. 

Paul. Nonsense, mother — cheer up ! Is there anything you 
have concealed from me ? 

Mrs. F. No — nothing you need know. [Aside.] If he knew 
that for five weeks we have been subsisting on the charity ot 
these poor people ! 

[^«/^r Mrs. Pufiy luith a pie, followed by 1^2^10. il> i f h a roast 
chicken, and Puffy, loaded with plates and various articles 
of dinner service.] 

Mrs. P. Here it is. 

Lucy. Stay — we must lay more covers ; help me, Paul. 
Liv. Let me assist you. [They join another table to the 
first.] 

Mrs. F. Ml', and Mrs. Puffy and Dan, dine with us. 
Paul. Bravo ! 

Liv. Hail Columbia I [Dan begins dancing about.] 
Lucy. Why, Dan — what's the matter ? 



20 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Dan. Oh, nothing, miss. 

Lucy. How red your face is ! 

Dan. Don't mind, miss. 

Mrs. P. Oh, Lord ! I forgot that dish ; it has been in the 
oven for an hour. 

Dan. It ain't at all hot. ]^2i.vXioiiches it and jumps away .\ 
It's got to burn into the bone afore George Washington No. 4 
gives in. S^Lays down the plate — they all sit.\ 

Puffy. Now, this is agreeable — I have not felt so happy 
since I started my forty horse-power oven. 

Liv. This pie is magnificent. [Mrs. Puffy rises?\^ 

Mrs. P. Oh, sir, you make me feel good. 

Dan. [Holdifig the table.'] Mother can't express her feelings 
without upsetting the table. 

YEiiter two Sheriff's Officers.] 

Paul. What persons are these ? 

Puffy. What do you want ? 

First Sheriff's Officer. 1 am the Deputy Sheriff— I come at 
the suit of Gideon Bloodgood, against Susan Fairweather and 
Jonas Puffy — amount of debt and costs, one hundred and fifty 
dollars. 

Paul. My mother ! 

Puffy. He said he would see about it — Oh, Mrs. Fairweather 
— I hope you will forgive me — I couldn't help it. 

Deputy Sheriff. I do not want to distress you ; Mr. Living- 
stone will perhaps pay the debt — or give me his check. 

Paul. Livingstone ! 

Liv. \After a paiisc.\ I cannot help you. Yes, I will 
rather appear what I am, a ruined man, than seem a contemp- 
tible one — I am penniless, broken — for weeks I have been so — 
but I never felt my poverty till now. 

\Tableaii.\ 

END OF ACT II. 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 21 



ACT III. 

Scene. — A room in the house of Gideon Bloodgood ; the 
furniture a7id ornaments are in a style of exaggerated richness 
— white satin and gold. 

Bloodgood is discovered writing at a table on one side j Alida 
seated, reading a newspaper, on the other. A^ 

Blood. What are you reading ? 

Alida. The New York Herald. 

Blood. You seem interested in it ? 

Alida. Very. Shall I read aloud ? 

Blood. Do. \^Goes on writing?^ 

Alida. \Reads.'\ "Wall street is a perch, on which a row 
of human vultures sit, whetting their beaks, ready to tight over 
the carcass of a dying enterprise. Amongst these birds of prey, 
the most vulturous is perhaps Gid. Bloodgood. This popular 
financier made his fortune out of the lottery business. He then 
dabbled a little in the slave trade, as the Paraquita case proved, 
— last week, by a speculation in flour, he made fifty thousand 
dollars ; this operation raised the price of bread four cents a loaf, 
and now there are a thousand people starving in the hovels ot 
New York— we nominate Gid. for Congress, expenses to be paid 
by the admiring crowd — send round the hat." Father ! \Riscs?^ 
Are you not rich ? 

Blood. Why do you ask ? 

Alida. Because people say that riches are worshipped in 
New York, that w^ealth alone graduates society. This is false, 
for I am young, handsome and your heiress — yet I am refused 
admission into the best families here whose intimacy I have 
sought. 

Blood. Refused admission ! Is not Fifth Avenue open to 
vou 1 

Alida. Fifth Avenue ! that jest is stale. Fifth Avenue is a 
shop where the richest fortunes are displayed like the dry goods 
in Stewart's windows, and like them, too, are changed daily. 
But why do we not visit those families at whose names all men 
and all journals bow with respect, the Livingstones, the Astors, 
the Van Renssalaers. Father, these families receive men less 
rich than you — and honor many girls who don't dress as well 
as I do, nor keep a carriage. 



'■y 



22 . THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Blood. Is not the Duke de Calcavella at your feet ? 

Alida. The Duke de Calcavella is an adventurer to whom 
you lend money, who escorts me to my box at the opera that he 
may get in free. 

Bl03d. You minx, you know you love him. 

Alida. I am not speaking of love — but of marriage. 

Blood. Marriage ! 

Alida. Yes, marriage ! This society in New York which 
has shut its doors against me, it is from amongst these families 
that I have resolved to choose a husband. 

Blood, [J^ising.] Alida, do you already yearn to leave me ? 
For you alone I have hoarded my wealth — men have thought 
me miserly, when I have had but one treasure in the world, 
and that was you, my only child. To the rest ot my fellow 
creatures I have been cold and calculating, because m you 
alone was buried all the love my heart could feel — my fortune, 
take it, gratify your caprices — take it all, but leave me your 
affection. 

Alida. You talk as if 1 were still a child. 

Blood. I would to God you were ! Oh, Alida, if you knew 
how fearful a thing it is for a man like me to lose the only thing 
in the world that ties him to it ! 

Alida. Do you wish me to marry the Duke de Calcavella ? 

Blood. A roue, a gambler ! Heaven forbid ! 

Alida. Besides, they say he has a wnfe in Italy. 

Blood. I shall forbid him the house. 

Alida. No, you won't. 

Blood. His reputation will compromise yours. 

Alida. Judge my nature by your own — I may blush from 
anger — never from shame. 

[EnUr Edwards.] 

Edw. Mr. Mark Livingstone. 

Alida. Livingstone ! this is the first time that name has 
ever been announced in this house. 

Blood. He comes on business. Tell Mr. Livingstone I can- 
not see him. Beg him to call at my office to-morrow. 

Alida. Show him up. 

Blood. Alida ! 

Alida. [Sharply to Edwards.] Do you hear me ? 

Blood. This is tyranny — I — I — [In a rage to Edwards.] Well, 
blockhead, why do you stand staring there ? Don't you hear 
the order ? Show him up. [Exit Edwards.] 

Alida. Livingstone ! 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 23 

s^Enfcr Mark Livingstone.] 

Mark. Mr. Bloodgood — Miss Bloodgood — YBoivs.\ I am 
most fortunate to find you at home. 

Alida. I trust that Mrs. Livingstone your mother, and Miss 
Livingstone your sister, are well ? 

Mark. \Coldly?^ I thank you. YGaily.^ Allow me to 
assure you that you were the belle of the opera last night. 

Alida. Yet you did not tiatter me with your presence in our 
box. 

Mark. You noticed my absence ! you render me the happiest 
and proudest member of my club. 

Alida. By the way, papa, I thought you were going to be a 
member of the Union. 

Mark. Ahem ! \^An awkward silencd.'] He was black- 
balled last week. 

Blood. I think, Mr. Livingstone, you have some business 
with me. 

Alida. Am I in the way ? 

Mark. Not at all — the fact is, Miss Bloodgood — my business 
can be explained in three words. 

Blood, indeed ! 

Mark. I am ruined. 

Alida. Ruined ! 

Mark. My father lived in those days when fancy stocks 
were unknown, and consequently w^as in a position to leave me 
a handsome fortune. I spent it— extravagantly — foolishly. My 
mother, who loves me "not w'isely but too well," heard that my 
name was pledged for a large amount, — Mr. Bloodgood held my 
paper — she sold out all her fortune without my knowledge, and 
rescued my credit from dishonor. 

Blood. Allow me to observe, I think she acted honorably, 
but foolishly. 

Mark. [^Bows to Bloodgood.] She shared my father's ideas 
on these matters ; well S^titrns to Alida,] finding I was such 
good pay, your father lent me a further sum of money, with 
which I speculated in stocks to recover my mother's loss — I 
bulled the market— lost — borrowed more — the crisis came — I 
lost again — until I found myself ruined. 

Blood. {^Risiiig?^ Mr. Livingstone, I anticipate the object 
of your present visit — you desire some accommodation — I regret 
that it is out of my power to accord it. If you had applied to 

me a few days earlier I might have been able to but — a — • 

at the present moment it is quite impossible. 



24 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Mark. [Aside.] Impossible — the usual expression — I am 
familiar with it. [Rising — aloud.] I regret exceedingly that 
I did not fall on that more fortunate moment to which you 
allude — a thousand pardons for my untimely demand- 

Blood. I hope you believe that I am sincere when I say 

Mark. Oh! I am sure of it. Accept my thanks — good-morn- 
ing, Miss Bloodgood. 

Blood. [Ringi)ig the bell.] I trust you will not be put to 
serious inconvenience. 

Mark. Oh, no. [Aside.] A revolver will relieve me of 
every difficulty. [Aloud.] Good-day, Mr. Bloodgood. [Exit.] 

Blood. I like his impudence ! To come to me for assistance ! 
Let him seek it of his aristocratic friends — his club associates 
who black-balled me last week. 

Alida. [ IVho has been seated writing at table.] Father, 
come here. 

Blood, What is it ? 

Alida. I am writing a letter which I wish you to sign. 

Blood. To whom ? 

Alida. To Mr. Livingstone. 

Blood. To Livingstone ! 

Alida. Read it. 

Blood. [Reads.] " My dear sir, give yourself no further 
anxiety about your debt to me ; I will see that your notes are 
paid — and if the loan of ten thousand dollars will serve you, I 
beg to hold that amount at your service, to be repaid at your 
convenience. Yours, truly." [TJirotving dowti letter.] I wall 
write nothing of the kind. 

Alida. You are mistaken — you will write nothing else. 

Blood. With what object ? 

Alida. I want to make a purchase. 

Blood. Of what ? 

Alida. Of a husband — a husband who is a gentleman — and 
through whom I can gain that position you cannot with all your 
wealth obtain — you see — the thing is cheap — there's the pen. 
[She rings a bell.] 

Blood. Is your mind so set on this ambition ? 

Alida. If it cost half your fortune. [Bloodgocd signs. 
Enter Edwards. To servant.] Deliver this letter immediately. 

Edw. [Takes the letter and is going out, when he runs 
against Badger, who is coolly entering.] I have told you 
already that my master is not to be seen. 

Bad. So you did — but you see how mistaken you were. 
' There he is — I can see him distinctly. 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 2$ 

Blood. Badger ! [To Edwards.] You may go, Edwards. 

Bad. [To Edwards.] James— get out. 

Blood. What can he want here ? 

Bad. Respected Gideon, excuse my not calhng more 
promptly, but since my return from California, this is my first 
appearance in fashionable society. 

Alida. [Proudly :\ Who is this fellow ? 

Bad. Ah, Alida, how is the little tootles .? You forget me. 

Alida. How can I recollect every begging imposter who 
importunes my father. 

Bad. Charming ! The same as ever — changed in form — but 
the heart, my dear Gideon, the same as ever, is hard and dry 
as a biscuit. 

Alida. Father, give this wretch a dollar and let him go. 

Bad. Hullo ! Miss Bloodgood, when I hand round the hat 
it is time enough to put something in it. Gideon, ring and 
send that girl of yours to her nurse. 

Alida. Is this fellow mad .? 

Blood. Hush ! my dear ! 

Alida. Speak out your business — I am familiar with all my 
father's affairs. 

Bad. All ? I doubt it. 

[Enter Yt'^2iX^^^ followed by Lucy.] 

Edw. This way. Miss. [To Alida.] Here is your dress- 
maker. 

Alida. [Eyeing Lucy.] Ha ! you are the young person I 
met this morning walking with Mr. Livingstone ? 

Lucy. Yes, madam. 

Alida. Hum ! follow me, and let me see if you can attend on 
ladies as diligently as you do on gentlemen. [Exeunt Pi\idi2i and 
Lucy.] 

Blood. [Looking inquiringly at Badger.] So you are here 
again. I thought you were dead. 

Bad. No ; here I am — like a bad shilling, come back again. 
Fve been all over the world since we parted twenty years ago. 
Your $3,000 lasted me for some months in California. Believe 
me, had I known that, instead of absconding, you remained in 
New York, I w^ould have hastened back again ten years ago, to 
share your revived fortunes. 

Blood. I am at a loss to understand your allusions, sir, — 
nor do I know the object of your return to this city. We have 
plenty of such persons as you in New York. 



y 



26 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Bad. The merchants of San Francisco did not think so, for 
they subscribed to send me home. 

Blooi. What do you mean ? 

Bad. I mean the Vigilance Committee. 

Blood. And what do you intend to do here ? 

Bad. Reduced in circumstances and without character, the 
only resource left to me is to start a bank. 

Blood. Well, Mr. Badger ; I cannot see in what way these 
things can affect me ! 

Bad. Can't you ? Ahem ! Do you ever read the Sunday 
papers ? 

Blood. Never. 

Bad. I've got a romance ready for one of them — allow me 
to give you a sketch of it. 

Blood. Sir 

Bad. The scene opens in a bank in Nassau Street. Twenty 
years ago a very respectable old sea captain, one winter's night, 
makes a special deposit of one hundred thousand dollars — no- 
body present but the banker and one clerk. The old captain 
takes a receipt and goes on his way rejoicing — but, lo ! and be- 
hold you ! — in half an hour he returns — having ascertained a 
fact or two, he demands his money back, but while receiving it 
he is seized by a fit of apoplexy, and he dies on the spot. End 
of Chapter One. 

Blood. Indeed, Mr. Badger, your romance is quite original. 

Bad. Ain't it ! never heard it before, did you ? — no ! Good ! 
Chapter Two. [Foinfedly.] The banker and his clerk carried 
the body out on the sidewalk, where it was discovered, and the 
next day the Coroner's Jury returned a verdict accordingly. 
The clerk receiving $3,000 hush money left for parts unknown. 
The banker remained in New York, and on the profits of this 
plunder established a colossal fortune. End of Part No. i — to 
be continued in our next. 

Blood. And what do you suppose such a romance will be 
worth ? 

Bad. I've come to you to know. 

Blood. I am no judge of that. 

Bad. Ain't you ? — well — in Part No. 2, I propose to relate 
that this history is true in every particular, and I shall advertise 
for the heirs of the dead man. 

Blood. Ha ! you know his name, then ? 

Bad. Yes, but I see you don't. I wrote the acknowledg- 
ment which you signed — you had not even the curiosity then to 
read the name of your victim. 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 2/ 

Blood. Realiy, Mr. Badger, I am at a loss to understand 
you. Do you mean to insinuate that this romance applies in 
any way to me ? 

Bad. It has a distant reference. 

Blood. Your memory is luxurious — perhaps it can furnish 
some better evidence of this wonderful story than the word of a 
convict ejected from California as a precaution of public safety. 

Bad. You are right — my word is not worth much. 

Blood. I fear not. 

Bad. But the receipt, signed by you, is worth a good deal. 

Blood. [StarH7tg:] Ha ! you lie ! 

Bad. Let us proceed with my romance. When the banker 
and his clerk searched for the receipt, they could not find it — a 
circumstance which only astonished one of the villains — because 
the clerk had picked up the document and secured it in his 
pocket. I don't mean to insinuate that this applies in any way 
to you. 

Blood. Villain ! 

Bad. Moral : As a general rule, never destroy receipts — it 
is no knowing when they may not prove useful. 

Blood. Were it so, this receipt is of no value in your hands 
— the heirs of the dead man can alone establish a claim. 

Bad. [Rising.'] That's the point — calculate the chance of 
my finding them, and let me know what it is worth. 

Blood. What do you demand ? 

Bad. Five thousand dollars. 

Blood. Five thousand devils ! 

Bad. You refuse ? 

Blood. I defy you — find the heir if you can. 

[E7iter Edwards.] 
Edw. Mr. Paul Fairweather ! 

[Enter Paul. Badger starts, then falls laughing in a chair.] 

Blood. Your business, sir, with me. 

Paul. Oh, pardon me, Mr. Bloodgood — but the officers have 
seized the furniture of our landlord — of your tenant — for a debt 
owed by my mother. I come to ask your mercy — utter ruin 
awaits two poor families. 

Bad. Oh, Supreme Justice ! there is the creditor, and there 
is the debtor. 

Paul. My mother — my sister — I plead for them, not for 
myself. 



28 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Blood. I have waited long enough. 

Bad. [Rising.'] So have I. [^To Paul.] Have you no 
friends or relations to help you ? 

Paul. None, sir ; my father is dead. [Bloodgood returns to 
/lis fable.] 

Blood. Enough of this. [Rings the bcIL] 

Bad. Not quite ; I feel interested in this young gentleman — 
don't you ? 

Blood. Not at all ; therefore my servant will show you both 
out — so you may talk this matter over elsewhere. 

Bad. \To Paul.] Your name is familiar to me — was your 
father in trade ? 

Paul, He was a sea captain. 

Bad. Ah ! he died nobly in some storm, I suppose — the last 
to leave his ship ? 

Paul. No, sir, he died miserably ! ten years ago, his body 
was found on the sidewalk in Liberty Street, where he fell dead 
by apoplexy. 

Blood. [Rising.] Ah ! 

[Enter Edwards.] 

Bad. James, show us out — we'll talk over this matter else- 
where. 

Blood. No — you — you can remain. Leave us, Edwards. 

Bad. Ah, I told you that the young man was quite interest- 
ing, Alphonse, get out. [Exit Edwards.] 

Blood. My dear Mr. Badger, I think we have a little busi- 
ness to settle together ? 

Bad. Yes, my dear Gideon. [Aside to Mm.] Stocks have 
gone up — I want fifty thousand dollars for that receipt. 

Blood. ■ Fifty thousand ! 

Bad. [Aside.] You see the effect of good news on the 
market — quite astounding ; ain't it ? 

Blood. If you will step down to the dining-room, you will 
find lunch prepared — refresh yourself, while I see what can be 
done for this young man. 

Bad. [Aside.] What are you up to ? You want to fix him 
— to try some game to euchre me. Go it ! I've got the receipt ; 
you're on the hook — take out all the line you want. [Oi//s.] 
Ho ! without there ! [Enter Edwards. J Maximilian, vamos ! 
Show me to the banquetting-hall. [Exit, with Edwards.] 

Blood. Your situation interests me ; but surely, at your age 
— you can find employment. 

Paul, Alas, sir, in these times, it is impossible. I would 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 29 

work, yes, at any kind of labor — submit to anything, if I could 
save my mother and my sister from want. 

Blood. Control your feeUngs : perhaps I can aid you. 

Paul. Oh, sir, I little expected to find in you a bene- 
factor. 

Blood. My correspondents at Rio Janeiro require a book- 
keeper — are you prepared to accept this situation ? but there is 
a condition attached to this employment that may not suit you 
— you must start by the vessel which sails to-morrow. 

Paul, To-morrow ! 

Blood. I will hand you a thousand dollars in advance of 
salary, to provide for your mother and sister ; they had better 
leave the city until they can follow you. You hesitate ! 

Paul. Oh, sir, 'tis my gratitude that renders me silent. 

Blood. You accept ? the terms are two thousand dollars a 
year. 

Paul. [Seizing his ha)id.'\ Mr. Bloodgood, the prayers of 
a family, whom you have made happy, will prosper your life. 
God bless you, sir ! I speak not for myself, but those still more 
dear to me. 

Blood. Call again in an hour, when your papers of intro- 
duction and the money shall be ready. 

Paul. Farewell, sir. I can scarcely believe my good 
fortune. [Exit.] 

Blood. So, now to secure Badger. [Sitting doivn and writ- 
ing.'] He must, at any risk, be prevented from communicating 
with the mother and daughter until they can be sent into some 
obscure retreat. I doubt that he is in possession of this receipt, 
ri?igs a bell] but I will take an assurance about that. [Rings.] 
Enter Edwards.] Take this letter instantly to the office of the 
Superintendent of Police. [Exit Edwards.] Ha ! Badger, 
when you find the heirs of the estate gone, you will perhaps 
come down in your terms. You did not remain long enough in 
California to measure wits with Gideon Bloodgood. [Exit.] 



[Enter Lucy.] 
best, miss, to 

[Enter Mark Livingstone. 



Lucy. I ^vill do my best, miss, to please you. Oh, let me 
hasten from this house ! 



Mark. Lucy ! 

Lucy. Mark !• 

Mark. What brings you here ? 

Lucy. \Vhat brings the poor into the saloons of the rich ? 



30 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

\E71ter Alida, unseen by the others.^ 

Alida. [Aside.] Mr. Livingstone here, and witli this girl ! 

Mark. My dear Lucy, I have news, bright news, that will 
light up a smile in your eyes — I am once more rich. But before 
I relate my good fortune, let me hear from you the consent to 
share it. 

Lucy. What do you mean ? 

Mark. I mean, dearest one, that I love you — I love you with 
all my reckless, foolish, worthless heart. 

Alida. [Advancing.] Mr. Livingstone, my father is waiting 
for you in his study. 

Mark. A thousand pardons, Miss Bloodgood ; I was not 
aware — excuse me. [Aside.] I wonder if she overheard me. 
[To Lucy.] I will see you again this evening. [Exii.] 

Alida. [To Lucy, "w/io is goiftg.] Stay ; one word with you. 
Mr. Livingstone loves you ! do not deny it, I have overheard 
you. 

Lucy, Well, Miss Bloodgood, I have no account to render 
you in this matter. 

Alida. I beg your pardon — he is to be my husband. 

Lucy. Your husband ? 

Alida. Be quiet and listen. Mr. Livingstone is ruined — my 
father has come to his aid ; but one word from me, and the 
hand, extended to save him from destruction, will be with- 
drawn. 

Lucy. But you will not speak that w^ord ? 

Alida. That depends 

Lucy. On what, his acceptance of your hand ? He does 
not love you. 

Alida. That is not the question. 

Lucy. You have overheard that he loves ?ne. 

Alida. That is no concern of mine. 

Lucy. And you will coldly buy this man for a husband, 
knowing that you condemn him to eternal misery ! 

Alida. You are candid, but not complimentary. Let us 
hope that in time he will forget you, and learn to endure me. 

Lucy. Oh, you do not love him. I see, it is his name you 
require to cover the shame which stains your father's, and 
which all his wealth cannot conceal. Thank Heaven ! his love 
for me will preserve him from such a cowardly scheme. 

Alida. I will make him rich. What would you make him .? 

Lucy. I would make him happy. 

Alida. Will you give him up 1 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 3 1 

Lucy. Never ! 
Alida. Be it so. 

[Re-e titer Mark,] 

Mark. Lucy, dear Lucy, do you see that lady ? — she is my 
guardian angel. To her I owe my good fortune — Mr. Blood- 
good has told me all, and see, this letter is in her own hand- 
writmg ; now, let me confess. Miss Bloodgdod, that had I not 
been thus rescued from ruin, I had no other resource but a 
Colt's revolver. 

Lucy. Mark ! 

Mark. Yes, Lucy — I had resolved I could not endure the 
shame and despair which beset me on all sides. But let us 
not talk of such madness — let us only remember that I owe her 
my life. 

Alida. [Aside.'] And I intend to claim the debt. 

Mark. More than my lite — I owe to her all that happiness 
which you will bestow upon me. 

Lucy. Me ! me ! — Mark ! — No, it is impossible. 

Mark. Impossible ! 

Lucy. I cannot be your wife. 

Mark. What mean you, Lucy ? 

Lucy. [JVit/i a supreme effort.] I — I do not love you. 

Mark. You jest, Lucy — yet, no — there are tears in your 
eyes. 

Lucy. [Looking away.] Did I ever tell you that I loved 
you .^ 

Mark. No, it is true— but your manner, your looks, I 
thought 

Lucy. You are not angry with me, are you ? 

Mark. I love you too sincerely for that, and believe me I 
will never intrude again on your family, where my presence 
now can only produce pain and restraint ; may I hope, how- 
ever, that you will retain enough kindness towards me as to 
persuade your mother to accept my friendship ? It will soothe 
the anguish you have innocently inflicted, if your family will 
permit me to assist them. Have you the generosity to make 
this atonement ? I know it will pam you all — but you owe it 
to me. [Lucy/rt/Zi", weeping, iii a ehair.] Pardon me. Miss 
Bloodgood. Farewell, Lucy. \To Alida.] I take my leave. 
\Exit.] 

Alida. He has gone — you may dry your eyes. 

Lucy. Oh ! I know what starvation is — I have met want face 
to face, and I have saved hini from that terrible extremity. 



52 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Alida. He offered you money ; I' should prefer that my hus- 
band should not have pecuniary relations with you — at least, 
not at present — so, as you are in want — here is some assistance. 
[Off'ers her purse to Lucy.] 

Lucy. \^Rising.\ You insult me, Miss Bloodgood. 

Alida. How can an offer of money insult anyloody ? 

Lucy. You thought I sold my heart — no — I gave it. Keep 
your gold, it would soil my poverty ; you have made two fellow- 
beings unhappy for life — God forgive you ! [Exit.] 

\Re-enter Bloodgood.j 

Blood. What is the matter, Alida ? 

\Re-entcr Badger.] 

Bad. Ycvur cook is perfect, your wine choice. {He pockets 
the 7tapki?i.] Well, now suppose we do a little business. 

Blood. [Rings belt.] It is time we began to understand 
each other. [Enter Edwards.] Has that letter been delivered ? 
[Edwards bows, and at a sign from Bloodgcod, exit?^ 

Bad. Do you wish to enter into particulars in the presence 
of this charming creature ? 

Blood. Her presence will not affect our business. 

[Re-enter Edwards, and two Police Officers.] 

Bad. Just as you please. What proposition have you to 
make ? 

Blood. I propose to give you into custody for an attempt to 
extort money by threats and intimidation. 

First Pol. You are our prisoner. 

Bad. Arrested ! 

Blood. Let him be searched ; on his person will be found a 
receipt signed by me, which he purloined from my desk 
yonder. 

Bad. Well played, my dear Gideon, but, knowing the 
character of the society into which I was venturing, I lett 
the dear document safe at home. Good-morning, Gid — Miss 
Bloodgood, yours. General — Colonel — take care ot me. [Goes 
up with Policemen.] 

END OF ACT HI. 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 33 

ACT IV. 
Scene I. — Union Square — Night. The snow falls. 

[Puffy discovered, R. H. with a pan of roasting cJiestnuts. 
Paul crouches in a corner of the street.] 

Puffy. Lord ! how cold it is. I can't sell my chestnuts. I 
thought if I posted myself just here, so as to catch the grand 
folks as they go to the opera, they might fancy to take in a 
pocketful, to eat during the performance. 

[Enter Dan, luith two trunks on his shoulders, followed 
by a Gentleman.] 

Dan. There is the hotel. I'll wait here while you see if you 
can get a room. \^Exit Gentleman, into hotel.] 

Puffy. Dan, my boy, what cheer } 

Dan. Tins is the fust job I've had to-day. 

Puffy. I've not taken a cent. 

Dan. Have you been home to dinner ? 

Puflfy. No ; I took a chestnut. There wasn't more than 
enough for the old woman and you, so I dmed out. 

Dan. I wasn't hungry much, so I borried a bit o' 'bacca. 

Puffy. Then the old woman had all the dinner, that's some 
comfort — one of us had a good meal to-day. 

Dan. I don't know, father — she's just ugly enough to go and 
put it by for our supper. 

[Enter Mrs, Puffy, with a tin can.] 

Puffy. Here she is. 

Mrs. P. Ain't you a nice pair? For five mortal hours I've 
been carryin' this dinner up and down Broadway. 

Dan. I told you so. 

Mrs. P. You thought to give old mother the slip, you un- 
dootiful villin — but I've found ye both. Come, liere's your 
suppers — I've kept it warm under my cloak. 

Puffy, Lay the table on the gentleman's trunk. 

Dan. [Looking into the tin can.] A splendid lump of 
bread, and a chunk of beef ! 

Puffy. Small feed for three human beings. 

Dan. Here goes. 

Puffy. Stay, Dan. [Placing his hands o^wr the bread.] God 
bless us, and pity the Poor of New York. Now, I'll share the 
food in three. 
3 



34 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Dan. ^Pointing to Paul.] Father, that cuss in the corner 
there looks kinder bad — suppose you have the food in four. 

Mrs. P, I don't want none. Give him mine — I ain't at all 
cold. 

Dan. Mother, there's a tear on the end of your nose — let me 
break it off. - 

Mrs, P. Get out. 

Dan. [Takes a piece of bread, aiid goes to Paul.] Hello, 
stranger ! He's asleep. 

Mrs. P. Then don't wake him. Leave the bread in his lap. 
\lidiXi places the bread, softly, beside Paul, and rejoins the party 
— they eat.] 

[Enter a Gentleman, /<?//t?z£/^^«? by Badger.] 

Bad. [Very ragged, with some opera books in one hand, 
and boxes of matches in the other.] Book of the opera sir ? 
take a book, sir — they will charge you double inside. Well, 
buy a box of lucifers— a hundred for three cents. [Dodging in 
front of him to prevent liim passing?^ Genuine Pollak's^try 
one. \Exit Gentleman— Badger changes his tone, and calls 
after him.] If you're short of cash, I'll lend you a shilling. He 
wants all he has got to pay his omnibus. Jerusha ! ain't it 
cold ! Tum-iddy-tum-iddy-tum. [Peiforvis a short dance, 
while he hums a banjo melody.] I could play the banjo on my 
stomach, while all my shivering anatomy w^ould supply the 
bones. 

[Enter'^x^. Fair weather.] 

Mrs. F, I cannot return to our miserable home without food 
for my children. Each morning we separate in search of 
work, in search of food, only to meet again at night — their poor 
faces thin with hunger. [She clasps her hands in anguish.] 
Ah ! what's here ? yes, this remains — it is gold ! 

Bad. [Overhearing her last word.] Gold ! Book of the 
opera, ma'am ? 

Mrs. F. Tell me, friend, where can I buy a loaf of bread at 
this hour ? 

Bad. There's a saloon open in the Fourth Avenue. [Aside.] 
Gold — she said gold. 

Mrs. F. Will they accept this pledge for some food ? [Shows 
a ring to Badger.] 

Bad. [Eager/y.] Let me see it. [Looks round.] 

Mrs. F. It is my wedding ring. [Badger examines it by 
the light of the druggist's window^] 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 35 

Bad. [Aside. \ I can easily make off with it. \Rubs his 
nose with the ring while he consider s.\ 

Mrs. P, My children are starving — I must part with it to 
buy them bread. 

Bad. [ Whistles — hesitates — and returns the ring.^ Go 
along, go ; buy your children food, start, and don't shiow that 
ring to anybody else. You deserve to lose it for showing it to 
such a blackguard as I am. [Exit Mrs. Fairweather.] 

[Enter Bloodgood.] 

Blood. What's the time. The opera must be nearly over. 
[Looks at his watch by the light of the druggist's window.~\ 

Bad. Book of the opera, sir — only authorized edition. 
[Recognizing him.\ Bloodgood ! 

Blood. Badger ! [They advance. Bloodgocd puts his 
hand into the breast of his coat.] 

Bad. Ah, my d-ear Gideon [Suddenly.] Take your 

hand out of your breast — come ! none of that~rve a knife up 
my sleeve that would rip you up like a dried codfish before you 
could cock that revolver you have there so handy. 

Blood. [Withdrawing his hajid.] You are mistaken. 

Bad. Oh, no ! I am not. I have not been ten years in Cali- 
fornia for nothing — you were just thinking that you could blow 
out my brains, and swear that I was trying to garrote you. 

Blood. What do you want ? 

Bad. I want your life — but legally. A week ago, I came 
out of prison — you had removed the Fairweather family — I 
could not find a trace of them but I found the receipt where I 
had concealed it. To-morrow I shall place it in the hands of 
the District Attorney with my confession of our murder of the 
sea captain. 

Blood. Murder 

Bad, Only think what a fine wood-cut for the Police 
Gazette we shall make, carrying out the dead body between us. 

Blood. Demon ! 

Bad. There will be a correct plan of your back office in the 
Herald — headed — the Bloodgood Tragedy. 

Bload. Come to my house to-morrow, and bring that docu- 
ment with you. 

Bad. No, sir — ee ! once caught twice shy. You owe me a 
call. Come to my house, to-night — and alone. 

Blood.- Where do you live ? 

Bad. Nineteen and a half Cross Street, Five Points — fifth 
floor back — my name is on the door in chalk. 



36 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Blood. In an hour 1 will be there. 

Bad. In an hour. Uon't forget to present my compliments 
to your charming daughter — sweet creature ! the image of her 
father — how I should like to write something in her album. 
[£",r// Bloodgood. E7iler two Gentlemen /r^/-'^ hotel — they talk. 
Cries ^ Here's lucifers — three cents a hundred. [Gentlemen 
shake hands and separate. Following o)ie off.'\ Here's this 
miscellaneous stock of lumber, just imported from Germany, to 
be sold out — an alarming sacrifice, in consequence of the 
present state of the money market. \Exit importtuiing the 
Gentleman, li^ho fries .to escape?^ 

Puffy. Come, mother, we must get home. 

Mrs. P Dan, have you seen nothing of poor Mrs. Fair- 
weather and her children ? • 

Dan. No, mother — I can't find out where they have gone to 
— I guess they've quit New York. 

Mrs. P. God help them — wherever they are ! 

Puffy. Come, mother. \Music — Puffy and Mrs. P. go out 
— Dan goes up and speaks with Gentleman.] 

[Enter Lucy.] 

Lucy. This is the place. The Sisters ot Charity in Houston 
street told me that I might find work at this address. [Reads 
paper.] Fourteenth Street. Oh, Heaven ! be merciful to me, 
this is my last hope. [Exit.] 

[Paul rises and comes forward.] 

Paul. My limbs are powerless. How long have I slept 
there ? — another long day has passed — I have crept round the 
hotels — the wharves— I have begged for work — but they laughed 
at my poor, thin form — the remnant of better days hung in tat- 
ters about me — and I was thrust from the door by stronger 
wretches than I. To-day I applied to get employment as a waiter 
in a hotel — but no,^l looked too miserable. Oh, my mother ! 
my poor mother ! my dear sister ! were it not for you, I would 
lie down here and die where I w^as born, in the streets of New 
York. 

Dan. All right, sir — to the Brevoort House. Here, you lazy 
cuss, shoulder this trunk, and earn a quarter 

[Enter a Porter.] 

Paul. Yes— oh, gladly ! 

Porter. It's myself will do that same. [Paul and the Porter 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 37 

seise the trunk.] Lave yer hoult — you dandy chap wid the 
black coat. 

Paul. He called to me. 

Porter. Is it the likes of you— that ud be takin' the bread 
out of the mouths of honest folks. 

Paul. God help me ! I have not tasted bread for two days. 

Porter. The Lord save us ! why didn't ye say so .^^-take the 
trunk and welkim. [Paul trying to lift it. Exit Dan.] 

Gent, Come along, quick ! \Exit Grentleman.] 

Paul, \ Unable to lift it, staggers back:\ I — I — can't — I am 
too weak from hunger. 

Porter. Look at this, my jewel. \Tbssing the trunk on his 
shoulder.] That's the way of it — all right, yer honor. [Exit 
Porter.] 

Paul. [Falling against the lamp-post in . despair, on his 
knees.] Oh, God ! — you who have refused to me the force to 
earn my bread, give me the resignation to bear your will. 

[Re-enter Lucy.] 

Lucy. The lady was from home — they told me to call 
next week — oh, could I see some kindly face — I would beg, yes 
— I would ask alms, [Enter a Gentleman.] Sir — pardon me 

— would you 

Gent. Eh ? 

Lucy. [Stammering.] I — I — I 

Gent. What do you want ? 

Lucy. [Faintly.] The — the — Bowery — if — if — you please 

Gent. Just turn to the right, and keep straight on. [Exit.] 
Lucy. Oh, coward ! coward ! — I have not the courage to 
beg. 

[Enter ^x^. Pairweather.] 

Mrs. F. They refused to take my ring— they said I had 
stolen it — They drove me from the house. To what have I 
come ! — to beg in the streets — yes, for them, for my children ! 

Paul. [Rising?^ Let me return to our home — perhaps 
mother or Lucy may have found work. 

Mrs, F. Sir ! sir ! — In the name of your mother — help my 
poor children. 

Lucy. [Covering her face zuith one hand, and holding out 
the other.] For pity's sake — give me the price of 

PauL Mother ! 1 

Lucy. My brother ! v [Together^ 

Mrs. F. My son ! ( 



38 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Paul. Oh, mother ! my own Lucy 1 my heart is broken. 
\Tliey embrace.] Have you concealed from me the extent of 
your misery ? 

Mrs. F. My son ! my poor children ! I cannot see you die 
of hunger and cold ! 

Paul. Take Lucy home, mother — and I will bring you food ! 

Mrs. F. Paul, promise me that nothing will tempt you to a 
dishonorable act. 

Paul. Do not fear, mother ; the wretched have always one 
resource — they can die ! Do not weep, Lucy — in an hour I 
will be with you. {^Exeunt Lucy and Mrs. Fairweather] I 
will go and await the crowd as they leave the Academy of Music 
— amongst them Heaven will inspire some Christian heart to 
aid me. \Exii.\ 

Scene H. — The vestibule of the Academy of Music. 

{Enter Alida and Livingstone. Music within?^ 

Alida. How strange that my father has not returned, 

Mark. Allow me to look tor the carriage. 

Alida. I will remain here. {Exit Livingstone.] At last I 
have won the husband I desire. He is entangled in my lather's 
debt : in one month hence I shall be Livingstone's wife. Our 
box is now crowded with the first people in New York. — The 
dear Duke still makes love to me — to which Livingstone appears 
indifferent — so much the better — once Mrs. Livingstone he may 
do as he likes and so will L 

[Enter Paul.] 

Paul. Ah ! 'tis she — Alida Bloodgood. 

Alida. I wonder they permit such vagabonds to hang about 
the opera. 

[I^e-enter Livingstone.] 

Mark. The carriage is ready — [J^ecognij^ino- "Psiul.] Paul! 

Paul. Livingstone ! 

Mark. Great heaven 1 In what a condition do I find you ? 

Paul, We are poor — we are starving. 

Alida. Give the fellow a dollar, and send him away. 

Mark. My dear Alida, you do not know — this is a school- 
fellow — an old friend — 

Alida. I know that you are keeping me in the cold — ah ! I 
see the Duke of Calcavella on the steps yonder, smoking a 
cigar. He will see me home, don't let me take you from your 
old friend. [Exit.] 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 39 

Mark. [Aside.] Cold — heartless girl ! [A/oud.] Come, 
Paul, come quickly, bring me to where I shall tind your mother 
— your sister — stay, let me first go home and get money, I will 
meet you at your lodgings — where do you live ? 

Paul. Number nineteen and a halt" Cross Street — Five Points 
— I will wait for you at the door. 

Mark. In less than an hour I shall be there. [E.veiniL] 

Scene III. — lYo. 19^ Cross Street — Five Points. Two 
ciiijoining attic rooms. That of Badger, L. H. That of the 
Fairweather/<7^/^/6'. R- h- ^lusic Lucy is seated c. and Mrs, 
Fairweather kneels r.] 

Lucy. Surely an hour has passed and Paul has not returned. 
Mrs. F. Oh, merciful father ! protect my poor children. 

[Enter Badger in his attic R. H. "duiih his box of matches. He 
scrapes several which do not light. Mrs. Fairweather r/^^^ 
and goes to window ?[ 

Bad. One hundred matches like that for one cent. [Light- 
ing one.] Oh, lucky chance ! Here's one that condescends. 
[Lights a candle in a bottle.] 

Mrs. F. Day after day goes by — no hope— the future worse 
than the present— dark— dark. Oh ! this load of wretchedness 
is too much to bear ? 

Lucy. The candle is going out. 

Mrs. F. So much the better, I shall not be able to see your 
tears. [Lucy rests her face on her hands.] 

Bad. [Taking a bottle front his pocket.] There's the con- 
centrated essence of comfort — the poor man's plaster for the 
inside. 

Lucy. [Aside.] Is there no way to end this misery ? None 
bat death ! 

Bad. [Taking from pocket a slice of bread and meat 
wrapped in a bit of newspaper^] Here's my supper. [Ad- 
dressing an imaginary servant.] James, lay the table — spread 
the tablecloth. — Yes, sa ! — [Places the newspaper over the 
table.] It's cold here, there's a draught in this room, some- 
where. — James, champagne. Thank you, James. [Drinks 
and eats.] 

Mrs. F. [Aside, coming down R.] If Paul had only Lucy to 
support, they might live — why should I prolong my life only to 
hasten theirs. 

Bad. The draught comes from — [examining the 7t'^?//]— yes 
there are great chinks in the wall— 1 must see my landlord and 



40 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

solicit repairs. A new family moved into the next room, yes- 
terday ; I wonder who they are ? 

Lucy. The wretched always have one resource — they can 
die! 

Bad. [Ai his table eating— he has taken the blanket from 
his bed and wrapped it about his shoulders.'] Now let us do 
a little business. James, turn up the gas. Yes, sa ! — \^He 
snuffs the candle with his fingers.] Thank you. Ahem ! 
James Bloodgood is coming for the receipt bequeathed to me 
by the old sailor. What price shall we set upon it, James ? 

Lucy. [Aside.'] When I am gone, there will be one mouth 
less to feed — Paul will have but one care to provide for. 

Mrs. P. [Aside.] In this room, we had some charcoal — • 
there is enough left to bestow on me an easy death. [Mrs. 
Fairweather exits by door r. h.] 

Bad. I think $50,000 would be the figure — Oh, what a pros- 
pect opens before me — 50,000 dollars — I should resume specie 
payments. 

Lucy. \Lopks into R. H. room.] What is mother doing ! 
ah, she is lighting the pan of charcoal on which we prepare our 
food — ah ! — the thought ! — could I induce her to leave me alone. 
Hem.— The deadly fumes of that fuel will bestow on me an easy 
death. 

Mrs. P. [Re-enters.] It is there — now, now, while I have 
the courage of despair. 

Bad. 50,000 dollars ! I'll have a pair of fast trotters, and 
dine at Delmonico's. James, more champagne. [Takes a 
drink from bottle?^ Thank you 

Lucy ^^//'^^ Mrs. F. [Together.] Mother — Lucy. 

Lucy. Dear mother — I have just thought of a friend — a — a 
— fellow work girl, from whom I may get assistance 

Mrs. F. Go, then, my child — yes — go at once. 

Lucy. I fear to go alone. Come with me, you can wait at 
the corner of the street until I come out. 

Mrs. F. [Putting on her bonjiet. Aside.] When she is out 
of sight, I can return and accomplish my purpose. 

Lucy. [Casting a cloak over her head. Aside.] I will 
come back by another way. 

Mrs. P. Come, Lucy. 

Lucy. I am ready, mother. [Aside.] She does not think 
that we are about to part forever. 

Mrs. P. [Aside.] My poor child ! 

Lucy. Kiss me — mother, for my heart is cold. [They em- 
brace.] 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 41 

Bad. [Cogi^afhig.] 50,000 dollars ! I'll have a box at 
Grace Church and a pew at the opera. 

Lucy. Mother, I am ready. [ExeiaU.] 

Bad. \Fi71ding his bottle empty. \ What's the news ? Let 
us consult my tablecloth. What journal have we here. 
\Reads.\ "Chevalier Greely has got a new hat." — It's the 
Herald — What's here ? — [Reads.] " You lie — villainy^you lie, 
and you know it." No ! it's the Tribune. 

[Enter Bloodgood.] 

Blood. Ah, Mr. Badger. 

Bad. Please to wipe your feet before you come in — my car- 
pet is new. I am glad to see you. Take a seat upon the sofa. 
[Pointing to bed.] 

Blood. Conie, sir ; to business. You have the receipt with 
you, I suppose ? 

Bad. You know I've got it, or you would not have come. 

Blood. How much do you want for it .'* 

Bad. Stay a moment. Let us see. You have had for twenty 
years in your possession the sum of $100,000, the profits of one 
robbery — well, at 8 per cent., this sum would now be doubled. 

Blood. Let me see the document, and then we can estimate 
its value. 

Bad. [Drawing receipt from pocket.] Here it is. 

Blood. [Springing towards /lim.] Let me have it. 

Bad. Hands off ! 

Blood. [Drawing pisto/.] That paper, give it me, or I'll 
blow your brains out ! 

Bad. [Edging slowly towards the bed.] Ah ! that's your 
calculation. 

Blood. Now you are in my power. 

Bad. It's an old dodge, but ineffective. Come, no violence 
— I'll give you the paper. 

Blood. A bullet is good argument. 

Bad. [Draiuing from beneath his pillow two enormous 
pistols^ A brace of bullets are better still ! 

Blood. Damnation ! 

Bad. Derringer's self-cocking. Drop your hand, or I'll blow 
you into pi. So, you took me for a fool : — that's where you 
made a mistake. I took you for a thorough rascal, that's where 
I did not make a mistake. Now, to business. 

Blood. [Surlily ^^ How much do you want ? 

Bad. Fifty thousand dollars 1 

Blood. Be it so. 



42 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Bad. In gold, or Chemicals. 

Blood. Very well. To-morrow 

Bad. No — to-night. 

Blood. To-night ! 

Bad. Y.es ; I wish to purchase a brown stone house on the 
avenue, early in the morning. 

Blood. Come with me to my house in Madison Square. 

Bad. No, thank you. I'll expect you here in an hour with 
the money. 

Blood. [Aside.] He has me in his power — I must ) ield. 
[.lloud.] I will return, then, in an hour. 

Bad. Let me light you out; Mind the bannister — don't 
break your precious neck, at least, not to-night. No, go in 
front, will you ? I prefer it. 

Blood. What for ? 

Bad. [With pistol atid candle.] A fancy of mine — a want 
of confidence, A want of confidence, in fact, pervades the 
community. [Exeunt.] 

[Re-enter Lucy.] 

Lucy. I took a cross street, and ran rapidly home. Now I 
am alone ; the fumes of the charcoal will soon fill this small 
room. They say it is an easy death — but let me not hesitate — 
let me sleep the long sleep where there are no more tears, no 
more suffering. [Exit into closet, R. H.] 

[Re-enter Badger.] 

Bad. So ! that is settled. I hope he will be cautious and 
escape the garroters. James, my chiboque. [Takes his pipe.] 

[Re-enter Mrs. Fairweather, R. h.] 

Mrs. F. Poor Lucy ! I dared not look back upon her, as 
we parted forever. Despair hastened my steps. My poor 
children ! I have given you all I had, and now I hope my 
wretched life will serve' yo^ i" your terrible need. Come, 
courage ; let me prevent the fresh air from entering, [Takes 
bits of linen and stops wijtdow and door.] 

Bad. [Sniiffino^.] I smell charcoal — burning charcoal — 
where can it come from ? 

Mrs. F. Now let me stop the door. 

Bad. \Snioki?ig.] It's very odd ; I've a queer feeling in my 
head ; let me lie down awhile. [Eies on his bed.] 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 43 

\Enter Lucy, with a brazier of charcoal, alight?^ 

Mrs. F. That's done. \G0i71g towards closet, and jueeting 
Lucy.] Now the hour has come. 

Lucy. The moment has arrived. [^Sets down the brazier.'] 

Mrs. F. Lucy ! 

Lucy. Mother ! 

Mrs. F. My child, what is this ? For what purpose are you 
here ? 

Lucy. And you, mother, why have you fastened those aper- 
tures so closely ? Like me, you wished to die ! 

Mrs. F. No, no, you shall not die ! my darling child — yoU 
are young — life is before you — hope — happiness. 

Lucy. The future ! what is it ? The man I love will soon 
wed another. I have no future, and the present is a torture. 

Mrs, F. Hush, my child, hush ! 

Lucy. Is it not better to die thus, than by either grief or 
hunger ? 

Mrs. F. [Falling in a chair.] Already my senses fail me. 
Lucy, my child, live, live ! 

Lucy. \Falls at her feet.] No ; let us die together — thus, 
mother — as often I knelt to you as a child, let me pray for those 
we love. 

Mrs. F. Oh, merciful Judge in Heaven, forgive us — forgive 
my child — and let — your anger fall — on me — alone-^ 

Lucy. God bless my dear brother — and you, my dear Mark, 
may — you be — hap \lVInrnmrs the rest of the prayer.] 

Bad. It's very cold ! 1 feel quite sleepy. I must not go to 
sleep. [Sings in a low voice.] " Oh, down in ole Virginny." 

Paul. [ Without knocking!] Mother, open the door, why is 
the • door locked ? Mother, mother ! Open, mother, open ! 
[Knocks violently. Mrs. Fairweather, arising, tries to reach the 
door, but cannot, and falls. Paul bursts open the door and 
enters with Livingstone ; they start back — Livingstone breaks 
the window, andY2>xl\ runs to his mother.] Too late ! too late ! 
They have committed suicide ! 

Mark. They live still. Quick, bear them outside into the 
air. [Carries Lucy out, while Paul assists his mother into the 
next room.] 

Bad. [Starting up ?^ How hot it is here — I cannot breathe. 
Have I drank too much ? Nonsense ! I could drink a dozen 
such bottles. Let rne try my legs a bit— where's the door ? I 
can't see it — my head spins round— come, Badger, no nonsense 
now. God ! I'm suffocating 1 Am I going to die, to die ! like 



44 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

that old sea captain ? [Tears off his cravat.'] Justice of 
Heaven ! I am strangling. Help ! help ! Bloodgood will return 
and find me helpless, then he will rob me of the receipt, as I 
robbed the old sailor — I know him of old — he is capable of it, 
but he shall not have it ! There, in its nook, if I have strength 
to reach it — it is safe — safe. [Drags himself along the floor, 
lifts up a loose board, puts the receipt beneath it and falls 
exhausted.] There ! 

Paul. [Entering R. H. room.\ I heard smothered cries for 
help — they came from this floor. [Exit.\ 

[Enter Bloodgood, L. H. room.] 

Blood. Here I am. Badger. [Starts back, suffocated.] What 
a suffocating atmosphere ! where is he ? ha ! is he intoxicated ? 

Paul. [Efttering L. H. room.] Perhaps the cry came from 
here — dead ? 

Blood. Paul Fair weather ! 

Paul. Gideon Bloodgood ! 

Bad. [Eaising his head.] What names were those ? Both 
of them ! Together, here ! [To Paul.] Listen — while I yet 
have breath to speak — listen ! Twenty years ago, that man 
robbed your father of $100,000 ! 

Paul. Robbed ! 

Blood. Scoundrel ! 

Bad. I've got the proofs. 

Paul. The proofs ? 

Bad. I have "em sate — you'll find 'em — th — ah ! [Falls 
backwards insensible ; Paul and Bloodgood stand aghast.] 

END OF ACT IV. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — Brooklyn Heights, overlooking the city of New 
York a?id its harbors. The stage is occupied by a neat garden, 
on a tiatural terrace of the heights — on the L. H., a frame 
cott-age, prettily built-^a table, with breakfast laid, L. H., at 
which Mrs. Fairweather and Paul are seated. 

[Enter Mrs. Puffy, /r^w the cottage, with a teapot.] 

Mrs. P. There's the tea. Bless me, how hot it is to-day .' 
who would think that we were in the month of February ? 

[Sits.] 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 45 

Mrs. F. Your husband is late to breakfast. 

Paul. Here he comes. 

[Enter Puffy, gui^y.] 

Puffy. How is everybody ? and above everybody, how is 
Miss Lucy this morning ? [Sits at table.'] 

Mrs. F. Poor child ! her recovery is slow — the fever has 
abated; but she is still very weak. 

Paul. Her life is saved — for a whole month she hovered over 
the grave. 

Puffy. But how is it we never see Mr. Livingstone ? Our 
benefactor is like Santa Claus — he showers benefits and blessings 
on us all, yet never shows us his face. 

Mrs. F. He* brought us back to this, our old home — he 
obtained employment for Paul in the Navy Yard. 

Puffy. He set me up again in my patent oven, and got me 
a Government contract for Navy biscuit. 

Mrs. P. He is made of the finest flour that Heaven ever 
put into human baking ; he'll die of over-bigness of the heart. 

Mrs. F. That's a disease hereditary in your family. 

Paul. [Risi?ig.] I will tell you why Livingstone avoids our 
gratitude. Because my sister Lucy refused his love — because 
he has sold his hand to AHda Bloodgood — and he has given us 
the purchase money. 

PuffjT. And amongst those who have served us, don't let us 
forget poor Badger. 

[Enter Badger, behind^ 

Bad. They are talking of me. 

Mrs. F. [Risi7ig?[ Forget him ! forget the man who watched 
Lucy during her illness, with more than the tenderness of a 
brother ! A woman never can forget any one who has been 
kind to her children. 

Mrs. P. Them's my sentiments to a hair. 

Bad. You shan't have cause to change them. 

Paul. Badger ! 

Bad. Congratulate me. I have been appointed to the police. 
The commissioners wanted a special service to lay on to Wall 
Street. Roguery, it seems, has concentrated there, and we 
want to catch a big offender. 

Mrs. P. They all go to Europe, 

Puffy. That actouyts for the drain of specie. [Mr. and 
Mrs. Puffy take off the breakfast table.] 

Mrs. F. I will tell Lucy that her nurse has come. [Exit 
into cottage?^ 



46 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Paul. Now, Badger, the news. 

Bad. Bad, sir. To-night Mr. Livingstone is to be married 
to Alida Bloodgo'od. 

Paul. What shall I do ? I dare not accuse Bloodgood of 
this robbery, unless you can produce the proofs — and perhaps 
the wretch has discovered and destroyed them. 

Bad. I think not. When I recovered from the effects of the 
charcoal, the day after my suffocation, I started for my lodging 
— I lound the house shut up, guarded by a servant of Bloodgood's 
— the banker had bought the place. But I had concealed the 
document too cunningly ; he has not found it. 

Paul. But knowing this man to be a felon, whom- we may 
be able at any hour to unmask, can wx allow Livingstone to 
marry his daughter ? 

[Enter Livingstone.] 

Liv. Paul, I have come to bid you farewell, and to see Lucy 
for the last time. 

[Enter Lucy.] 

Lucy. For the last time, why so ■ [Paul and Badger 

run to assist her forward. ^ 

Liv. Lucy, dear Lucy ! 

Bad. Now take care — sit down. 

Lucy. Ah, my good, kind nurse. [She sits.'] You are 
always by my side. 

Bad. Always ready with a dose of nasty medicine, ain't I — 
well now I've got another dose ready — do you see this noble 
kind heart, Lucy ; it looks through two honest blue eyes, into 
your face — well, tell me what you see there. 

Lucy. Why do you ask me ? [Troubled.] 

Bad. Don't turn your eyes away — the time has come when 
deception is a crime, Lucy — look in his face, and confess the 
infernal scheme by which Alida Bloodgood compelled you to 
renounce your love. 

Liv. Alida ! 

Lucy. Has she betrayed me ? 

Bad. No ! you betrayed yourself — one night in the ravings 
of your fever, when I held your hands in the paroxysm of your 
frenzy, I heard the cries that came from your poor wounded 
heart ; shall I repeat the scene ? 

Lucy, [Hiding her face in her hands.] No, no ! 

Liv. Paul, is this true ? Have I been deceived ? 

Paul. You have — Lucy confessed to me this infamous bar- 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 47 

gain, extorted from her by Alicia Bloodgood, and to save you 
from ruin she sacrificed her love. 

Liv. Lucy ! dear Lucy, look up. It was for your sake alone 
that 1 accepted this hated union — to save you and yours from 
poverty — but whisper one word, tell me that ruin of fortune is 
better than ruin ot the heart. [Lucy/^?//^ tipon his neck.'] 

Bad. Hail Columbia ! I know a grand party at Madison 
Square that will cave in to-night — hi ! — I shall be there to con- 
gratulate that sweet girl. 

[E?tter Dan.] 

Dan. Mother ! mother ! where's my hat, quick, there's a fire 
in New York. [^He runs ifito the house and re-enters with a 
telescope ; looks off towards the city.] 

Bad. Yes, and there is a fire here too, but one we don't want 
put out. 

PauL Now, Mark, I can confess to you that documents 
exist — proofs of felony against Bloodgood, which may at any 
moment consign him to the State prison, and transfer to our 
family his ill-gotten wealth. 

Liv. Proofs of felony ? 

Dan. The fire is in Chatham Street. 

PauL Twenty years ago he robbed my father of $100,000. 

Bad. And I was his accomplice in the act ; we shared the 
plunder between us. 

Dan. No, it isn't in Chatham Street — I see it plainly — it is in 
Cross Street, Five Points. 

Bad. [Starting-.] Cross Street — where, where ? [I^nns np.] 

Liv. But if these proofs — these documents exist, where are 
they? 

Dan. It is the tenement house two doors from the corner. 

Bad. Damnation ! it is our old lodgmg ! you ask where are 
these proofs, these documents ? they are yonder, in that burning 
house — fired by Bloodgood to destroy the papers he could not 
find — curses on him ! 

[Enter Mrs, Pufiy, with Dan's hat.] 

Mrs. P, Here's your hat, Dan. 

Bad. Quick ! Dan, my son — for our lives ! Dan ! the for- 
tunes of Lucy, and Paul, and the old woman, are all in that 
bu^rning house. [Dan begins to thrust his trousers into his 
boots. Enter Mrs. Faifweather and Puffy.] I mean to save 
it or perish in the flames. 

Dan. Count me in. [They run out.] 
[Tableau.'^ 



48 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Scene II. — Stage dark. The exterior of the teiie7}ient house. 
No. ig)4 Cross Street, Five Points — the shutters of all the 
windows are closed. A light is seen through the round holes 
tji the shutters of the upper windows — presently a fla?ne 
rises — // is extinguished — theti revives. The light seen to 
descend as the bearer of it passes down the staircase, the door 
opens cautiously — Bloodgood, disguised, appears— he looks 
round — closes the door again — locks it. 

Blood. In a few hours, this accursed house will be in ruins. 
The receipt is concealed there — and it will be consumed in the 
flames. \The glow of fire is seeii to spread from room to 
room.] Now, Badger — do your worst — I am safe ! [Exit.] 

[The house is gradually enveloped in fire, a cry outside is 
heard, '"Fi-er!" "Fi-erf" It is taken up by other voices 
more distant. The tocc-in souftds — other churches take up 
the alarm — bells of engines are heard. Enter a crowd of 
persons. Enter Badger, without coat or hat — he tries the 
door — finds it fast j seizes a bar of iron and dashes in the 
ground fioor window, the interior is seen in fiames. Enter 
Dan. 
Dan. [Seei?ig'Q2i^^QX cli)nbing into the wifidow.] Stop! stop! 

[Badger leaps in and disappears. Shouts from the mob; 
Dan leaps ifi — another shout, Dan leaps out again black and 
burned, staggers forward and seems overcome by the heat 
attd smoke. The shutters of the garret fall and discover 
Badger in the upper fioor. Another cry from the crowd, a 
loud crash is heard, Badger disappears as if falling with 
the inside of the building. The shutters of the windows fall 
away, and the inside of the house is seen, gutted by the fire ; 
a cry of horror is uttered by the mob. Badger drags him- 
self from the ruins, and falls across the sill of the lower 
window. Dan and t%vo of the mob run to help him forward 
but recoil before the heat; at length they succeed in rescuing 
his body, which lies c. Livingstone, Paul, and Puffy, rush 
on. Dan kneels over Badger and extinguishes the fire 
which clings to parts of his clothes. \ 

Scene III. — The drawing-room in Bloodgood's marision, in 
Madison Square — illuminated. Mtisic within. 

[Enter BloodgOOd.J 

Blood. The evidence of my crime is destroyed no power — 
on earth can feveal the past. [Enter Alida, dressed as a 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 49 

bride.'] My dearest child, to-night you will leave this roof; but 
from this home in your father's heart none can displace you. 

Alida. Oh, dear papa, do take care of my flounces — you 
men paw one about as if a dress was put on only to be 
rumpled. 

Blood. The rooms below are full of company. Has Living- 
stone arrived .? 

Alida. I did not inquire. The Duke is there, looking the 
picture of misery, while all my female friends pretend to con- 
gratulate me — but I know they are dying with envy and spite. 

Blood. And do these feelings constitute the happiest day of 
your life ? Alida, have you no heart ? 

Alida. Yes, father, I have a heart — but it is like yours. It 
is an iron safe in which are kept the secrets of the past. 

[Enter Edwards,] 

Edw. The clergyman is robed, sir, and ready to perform 
the ceremony. 

Blood. Let the bridesmaids attend Miss Bloodgood. [The 
curtaiits are raised, and the Bridesmaids enter. Bloodgood 
goes up and off, and iuunediately returns with the bridal 
party. ~\ Welcome, my kind friends. \Ji\i^2^ speaks aside with 
the Duke. J Your presence fills me with pride and joy — but 
where is the bridegroom ? has no one seen my son-in-law .'* 

Edw. \Announci7ig.^^ Mr. Mark Livingstone. 

\Enter Livingstone.] 

Blood. Ah ! at last. What a strange costume for a bride- 
groom. 

Alida. \Turns, and views Livingstone.] Had I not good 
reasons to be assured of your sincerity, Mr. Livingstone, your 
appearance would lead me to believe that you look upon this 
marriage as a jest, or a masquerade. 

Liv. As you say, Miss Bloodgood, it is a masquerade — but 
it is one where more than one mask must fall. 

Blood. [Aside.] What does he mean ? ^ 

Alida. You speak in a tone of menace. May 

Blood. Perhaps I had better see Mr. Livingstone alone — he 
may be under some misapprehension. 

Liv. I am under none, sir^although you may be ; and 
what I have to say and do, demands no concealment. I come 
here to decline the hand of your daughter. [Movement aniofigst 
the crowd.] 

Blood. You must explain this public insult. 
4 



50 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

Liv. I am here to do so, but I do not. owe this explanation 
to you ; I owe it to myself, and those friends I see here, whose 
presence under your roof is a tribute to the name I bear.- My 
friends, I found myself in this man's debt ; he held in pledge all 
I possessed — all but my name ; that name he wanted to shelter 
the infamy in which his own was covered ; I was vile enough 
to sell it. 

Blood. Go on, sir ; go on. 

Liv. With your leave, I will. 

Alida. These matters you were fully acquainted with, I pre- 
sume, when you sought my hand. 

Liv. But 1 was not acquainted with the contents of these 
letters — written by you, to the Duke of Calcavella. 

Blood. Dare you insinuate that they contain evidence 
derogatory to the honor of my child ? 

Liv. No, sir ; but I think Miss Bloodgood will agree with 
me, that the sentiments expressed in these letters entitle her to 
the hand of the Duke, rather than to mine. \He hands the 
letters to Alida. ] 

Alida. Let him go, father. 

Liv. Not yet. You forget that my friends here are as- 
sembled to witness a marriage, and all we require is a bride. 

Blood. Yes ; a bride who can pay your debts. 

[Enter Paul, Lucy, and Mrs, Fairweather. ] 

Paul. No, sir ; a bride who can place the hand of a pure 
and loving maiden in that of a good and honest man. 

Blood. How dare you intrude in this house "? 

Paul. Because it is mine ; because your whole fortune will 
scarcely serve to pay the debt you owe the widow and the 
children of Adam Fairweather. 

Blood. Is my house to be invaded by beggars like these ! 
Edwards, send for the police. Is there no law in New York 
ior ruffians ? 

\Entcr Badger, in the uniform of an officer of police.'] 

Bad. Yes, plenty — and here's the police. 

Blood. Badger ! 

Bad. What's left of him. 

Blood. [ li'ildly.] Is this a conspiracy to ruin me ? 

Bad. That's it. We began it twenty years ago ; we've been 
hatching it ever since ; we let you build up a fortune ; we 
tempted you to become an incendiary ; w^p led you on from 
misdemeanor to felony — and that's what I want you for. 



THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 5 1 

Blood. What do you mean ? 

Bad. My meaning is set forth very clearly in an affidavit, 
on which the Recorder, at this very late hour for business, 
issued this warrant for your arrest. 

[Enter Two Policemen. Alida/<^//j in a chair.'] 

Blood. Incendiary ! Dare you charge a man of my standing 
in this city, with such a crime, without any cause ? 

Bad. Cause ! you wanted to burn up this receipt, which I 
was just in time to rescue from the flames ! 

Blood. [Drawing a knife.] Fiend ! you escaped the flames 
here — now go to those hereafter ! 

Bad. Hollo ! [Disarms Bloodgcod, and slips a pair oj 
handcuffs on him\ Gideon — my dear Gideon — don't lose your 
temper. [Throivs him back, 7nanacled, on the sofa.] 

Paul. Miss Bloodgood, let, me lead you from this room. 

Alida. [Rises, and crosses to her father.] Father ! 

Blood. Alida, my child. 

Alida. Is this true ? [A pause.] It is — I read it in your 
quailing eye — on your paling lips. And it was for this that 
you raised me to the envied position of a rich man's heiress — 
for this you roused my pride —for this you decked me in jewels 
— to be the felon's daughter. Farewell. 

Blood. Alida — my child — my child — it was for you alone I 
sinned— do not leave me. 

Alida. What should I do in this city ? can I earn my bread ? 
what am I fit for — with your tainted name and my own sad 
heart ? [Throws down her bride s coronet.] I am fit for the 
same fate as yours — infamy. [Exit.] 

Bad. Duke, you had better see that lady out. [^-I'/Z Duke, j 
Gideon, my dear, allow nie to introduce you to two friends of 
mine, who are anxious to make your acquaintance. 

Blood. Take me away ; I have lost my child — my Alida ; 
take me away ; hide me from all the world. 

Paul. Stay ! Mr. Bloodgood, in the midst of your crime 
there was one virtue : you loved your child » even now your 
heart deplores her ruin — not your own. Badger, give me that 
receipt. [Takes the receipt from Badger.] Do you acknowl- 
edge this paper to be genuine ? 

Blood. I do. 

Paul. [Tears it.] I have no charge against you. Let him 
be released. Restore to me my fortune, and take the rest ; go, 
follow your child ; save her from ruin, and live a better life. 

Blood. I cannot answer you as I would. [Turns aside in 



52 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 

tears, and goes out with Policemen and Badger, IV ho releases 
Bloodgood. ] 

Liv. That was nobly done, Paul. Now, my friends, since 
all is prepared for my marriage let the ceremony proceed. 

Mrs. F. But where is Mrs. Puffy. 

Bad. Here they are, outside, but they won't come in, 

Paul. Why not ? 

Bad. They are afraid of walking on the carpets. 

Liv. Bring them in. 

Bad. That's soon done. \^Exit.'\ 

Mrs. F. Poor, good, kind people — the first to share our 
sorrow, the last to claim a part in our joy. 

\E?iter Badger and Dan— Puffy and one Policeman— Mrs. 
Puffy and the other Policeman.] 

Bad. They wouldn't come — I was obliged to take 'em in 
custody. 

Dan. Oh ! mother, where's this ? 

Mrs, P. I'm walkin' on a feather bed. 

Puffy. He wouldn't let me wipe my shoes. 

Liv. Come in — these carpets have never been trodden by 
more honest feet, these mirrors have never reflected kinder 
faces — come in — breathe the air here — you will purify it. 

Mrs. P. Oh, Dan, what grand folks — ain't they ? 

Dan. Canvas backs every one on 'em. 

Liv. And now, Lucy, I claim your hand. [Miisie inside.'] 
All is ready for the ceremony. 

Bad. You have seen the dark side of life — you can appreciate 
your fortune, for you haye learned the value of wealth. 

Mrs. F. No, we have learned the value of poverty. [Gives 
her hand to Puffy.] It opens the heart. 

Paul. \To the public] Is this true? Have the sufferings 
we have depicted in this mimic scene, touched your hearts, and 
caused a tear of sympathy to fill your eyes ? If so, extend to us 
your hands. 

Mrs. F. No, not to us — but when you leave this place, as 
you return to your homes, should you see some poor creatures, 
extend your hands to them, and the blessings that will follow 
you on your way will be the most grateful tribute you can pay 
to the poor of the 

STREETS OF NEW YORK. 



TjJI QSAMATie PBBIISHING GOMPANY'S CATALOGUE 



The American Amateur Drama. 



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A parlor scene. Plays fifteen minutes. Costumes are suitable 
for one lady and one gentleman in the fashion of to-day, for 3. 
housemaid's pretty dress and a young dandy darkey. The 
cast includes Mrs. Greene, afraid of burglars; her husband, 
brave when there is no danger; Kitty, afraid of no one, and 
Toby, a darkey, who is hired to catch burglars. The situations 
axe new, and will keep the audience roaring from the entrance 
of Toby to the end. Price, 15 cents. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 

Cheerful Liar. Farcical comedy in three acts, by John 
A. Fraser, Jr., author of "Modern Ananias," *'Noble Outcast,^' 
"Merry Cobbler," etc. Five male, three female characters. 
Plays three hours. Three interior scenes, all easily arranged. 
Costumes of the day. A shrieking farcical comedy, full of "go" 
and new ^jituations. Unlike most light pieces, this one has a 
most capital plot, full of entanglements. It is a comedy in 
which any number of specialties may be introduced, although 
it was played on the professional stage a long season without 
any. Flora, Randolph, Guy, Hussel and Mrs. Sweetlove may 
all sing and dance with advantage. Judge Hussel is a great 
character part. The audacity as well as cheerfulness with 
which he prevaricates invariably "brings down the house." In 
the last act where Flora dons a boy's costume and the Judge 
is dressed to captivate, the stage presents one of the strongest 
comedy scenes that has ever been suggested. The book of 
the play gives the very full stage directions for crosses, en- 
trances, exits, etc., for which Mr. Fraser's plays are noted. 
While prepared for amateurs in details, professional com- 
panies find this play a good one for the box office as well as 
an artistic favorite. Price, 25 cents. 

Delicate Question. Comedy drama in four acts, by 
John A. Fraser, Jr., author of "Modern Ananias," "Noble 
Otytcast," etc. Nine male, three female characters. One exte- 
rior, two interior scenes. Modern costumes. Plays two hours. 
If a play presenting an accurate picture of life in the rura. 
districts is required, in which every character has been faith- 
fully studied from life, nothing better for the use of amateurs 
than "A Delicate Question" can be recommended. The story 
is utterly unlike that of any other play, and deals with the 
saloon, which it handles without gloves and at the same time 
without a single line of sermonizing. What "Ten Nights in a 
Barroom" was to the public of a past generation, "A Delicate 
Question" is destined to be to the present, although it is far 
from being exactly what is known as a "temperance play." 
The plot is intensely interesting, the pathetic scenes full of 
beauty, because they are mental photographs from nature, and 
the comedy is simply uproariously funny. The parts, very 
equally balanced. The scenic effects are quite simple, and by 
a little ingenuity the entire piece may be played in a kitchen 
scene. The climaxes are all as novel as they are effective and 
the dialogue is as natural as if the characters were all real 
people. Price, 25 cents. 

Food for Powder. Vaudeville in two acts, by R. Andre, 
author of "A Handsome Cap," "Minette's Birthday," etc. 
Three male, two female characters. One interior scene. Plays 
forty minutes. Costumes, French, of the time of Napoleon I. 
This dainty and refined play is full of pretty songs set to famil- 
iar airs, and specialty dances may be introduced. For profes- 
sional or amateur vaudeville evenings, this will be found just 
txitsr tni^g Ikr the short drama which should always form on9 
#f the features. Price, 15 cents. 



4 THE ORAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 

Handsome Cap. Comic operetta in one act, by R. An- 
dre, author of "Food for Powder," "Minette's Birthday," etc. 
Three male, two female characters. One cottage interior scene. 
Costumes, of time of George II.. Plays forty minutes. The 
songs are all written to be sung to popular and well-known 
airs; dances may be introduced without limit, although there 
is a real plot and story carried to a happy termination. Like, 
other plays by this writer, "A Handsome Cap" is peculiarly 
suited to amateur and professional vaudeville evenings. 
Price, 15 cents. 

Maud Muller. Operetta in three acts, by Effle W. Merri- 
man, author ^'Socials," "Pair of Artists," etc. Three male, 
two female characters. Ivudicrous costumes and some proper- 
ty effects which may be easily arranged but are very amus- 
ing. One interior, one exterior scene. Plays two hours. The 
piece is arranged for a chorus to do a good deal of work, but 
a distinct reader will be found effective. The book of the 
play gives the most minute directions for its production as to 
action and properties. The horse upon which the judge rides 
in the hay -field scene is represented by two men covered by a 
fur robe. The antics of this horse may be made as funny as 
the imagination of the director may suggest. The judge 
should be a spare man made up to look pompous. Church so- 
cieties, as well as amateur clubs, will find this a money-mak- 
ing entertainment. Price, 25 cents. * 

Merry Cobbler, Comedy drama in four acts, by John A. 
Fraser, Jr., author "Bloomer Girls," "Showman's Ward." 
"Modern Ananias," etc. Six male, five female characters. Two 
interior, two exterior scenes. Modern costumes. Plays two 
hours. This romantic story of a German emigrant boy who 
falls in love with, and finally marries, a dashing Southern 
belle, is one of the cleanest and daintiest in the whole reper- 
toire of the minor stage. The Merry Cobbler is one of the 
type the late J. K Emmet so loved to portray. Had the piece 
been originally written for the use of amateurs it could not 
have been happier in its results, its natural and mirth-provok- 
ing comedy combined wiih a strong undercurrent of heart in- 
terest, rendering it a vehicle with which even inexperienced 
actors are sure to be seen at their best. The scenic effects are 
of the simplest description and the climaxes, while possessing 
the requisite amount of "thrill" are very easy to handle. 
The author has prepared elaborate instructions for its produc- 
tion by amateur players. Price, 25 cents. 

Minette's Birthday. Vaudeville in one act, by R.An- 
dre, author of "A Handsome Cap," "Food for Powder," etc. 
Two male, three female characters. Plays forty-five minutes. 
One interior cottage scene. Costumes, in fancy French peasant 
fashion. This is another one of this author's plays arranged 
for the popular amateur and professional vaudeville evenings. 
It i. full of merry songs and dances, refined, spirited and very 
amusing: always. Price, 15 cents. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE. 



Modern Ananias. Comedy in three acts, by John A. Fraser, 
Jr., author " Noble Outcast," " Showman's Ward," etc. Four 
male, four female characters. Two interior, one exterior scenes. 
Modern society costumes. Plays three hours. This is a screaming 
farcical comedy, which depends upon the wit and humor of its 
jines no less than upon the drollery and absurdity of its situations 
for the shrieks of laughter it invariably provokes. Unlike most 
farcical comedies. " A Modern Ananias" has an ingeniously com- 
plicated plot, which maintains a keen dramatic interest until the 
fall of the last curtain. The scenery, if necessary, may be reduced 
to a garden scene and an interior. The climaxes are all hilariously 
funny, and each of the three acts is punctured with laughs from 
beginning to end. Amateurs wall find nothing more satisfactory 
in the whole range of the comic drama than this up-to-date 
comedy-farce. The fullest stage directions accompany the book, 
including all the "crosses" and positions, pictures, etc. Price, 25 
cents. 

Noble Outcast. Drama in four acts, by John A. Fraser, Jr., 
author " Modern Ananias,"" Merry Cobbler,"" Cheerful Liar, "etc. 
Four male, three female characters. Plays three hours. Costumes, 
modern, except Jerry's, when he appears as a tramp and again as 
an exaggerated "swell," This play has proven one of the most 
popular ever produced on the professional stage, but the author 
for the first time now allows it to be printed from the original 
manuscript. All the entrances, exits and positions will be found 
in the book of the play. It is safe to say that in the whole range 
of the drama there is no character to be found with such power to 
compel alternate laughter and tears as is shown by "Jerry, the 
tramp." The dramatic interest is always intense. Price, 25 cents. 

Pair Of Artists. Comedy in three acts, by Bffie W. Merriman, 
author of * ' Maud Muller, " " Socials, ' 'etc. P'our male, three female 
characters. Plays one and three-quarters hours. Three interior 
scenes, all easily arranged. Mrs. Scott wears bloomers and a 
man's hat; Mr.Scott, blue overalls and a checked gingham apron; 
Gertie, a long-sleeved apron and hair braided dov/n her back; the 
others, conventional dress of to-day. Each character has a promi- 
nent part. There is no villain or heavy people; all goes with a 
vim, and has been presented to the most critical audiences with 
entire success. Price, 15 cents. 

Purse, The. Comedy in two acts; dramatized by Theodore 
Harris, from Balzac's " La Bourse." Seven male, two female char- 
acters. Plays one hour and fifty minutes. Interior scenes, 
costumes of the time of Napoleon I. The exquisite language and 
sentiment of this noted French writer has been admirably trans- 
lated by Mr, Harris. For a student of dramatic literature, this 
part is recommended. The dialogue is as dainty and charming as 
a piece of French porcelain. Price, 15 cents. 



6 THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 

Showman's Ward. Comedy in three acts, by John A. 
Fraser, Jr., author of "Noble Outcast," "Delicate Question," 
"Merry Cobbler," etc. ^Bight male, five female characters. 
Three doubles may be made. Costumes of to-day. Plays two 
and one-half hours, This comedy has been very successfully 
performed under another title on the professional stage. It 
is, however, well adapted for the use of amateurs on account 
of the absence of scenic effects, the play being capable of per- 
formance in a parlor with different furniture for each act. 
The more singing and dancing introduced, the better for the 
performance. There is a dress rehearsal scene and a girls* 
school scene, which are always uproariously funny. The 
number of girls taking part in the school scene may be unlim- 
ited, thus making the play an admirable one for a club or 
society. The role of the showman's ward is a soubrette one, 
and it can easily be made a star part by a clever young wo- 
man if this is desired. Still, all the characters are so distinct- 
ly drawn that each is important and leading. Mr. Fraser has, 
as usual, given full directions for the stage production of this 
comedy in the book of the play. Price, 25 cents. 

Twixt Love and Money. Comedy drama in four acts, 
by John A. Fraser, Jr., author "Modern Ananias," "Merry 
Cobbler," "Noble Outcast," etc. Eight male, three female 
characters. Plays two and one-half hours. Three interior 
scenes. Costumes of the day. This charming domestic com- 
edy drama of the present day bids fair to rival, both with pro- 
fessionals and amateurs, the success of "Hazel Kirke." The 
scene is laid in a little village on the coast of Maine, and the 
action is replete with dramatic situations which "play them- 
selves." The story is intensely interesting and, in these days 
of Frenchy adaptations and "problem" plays, delightfully 
pure; while the moral — that love brings more happiness than 
does money — is plainly pointed without a single line of preach- 
ing. No such romantic interest has been built up around a 
simple, country heroine since the production of "Hazel Kirke" 
and "May Blossom" years ago. The play is in four acts, and 
as the scenery is easy to manage it is particularly well adapted 
for the use of amateurs. This play was originally written for 
professionals, but has been carefully revised for amateurs by 
Mr. Fraser, and the book contains full directions for all stage 
business. The dramatic interest is intense, each act being 
given a strong climax in situation and dialogue. Price, 25 cents. 

Will You Marry Me? Farce in one act, by Robert 
Julian, author of "Burglars." Two male, two female charac- 
ters. Plays twenty minutes. Costumes of to-day for eccen- 
tric old gentleman, one maiden elderly lady, one young man 
and one young woman. One interior parlor scene. The plot 
is full of intensely amusing matrimonial complications, with 
a happy ending. The fun is about evenly divided among the 
four strong parts. Some clever acting is desired where the 
dialogue is repeated under contrasting circumstances, by dif- 
ferent persons. Price, 15. cents. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 



The World Acting Drama. 

Price, 15 Cents. 

This collection of plays contains only such as are world-wide in popularity. 
Some are suitable for the amateur stage, some for the professional stage, some 
for both. The farces are sparkling, the comedies witty, the dramas and trage«- 
dies thrilling, but nothing dull, impure or suggestive is admitted. The plays 
are printed from large clear type, on good paper, and are undoubtedly supe- 
rior to all other editions in the market. 

Betsy Baker. Farce in one act, by J. Madison Morton, 
author of "Box and Cox," "Slasher and Crasher," etc. Two 
male, two female characters. Parlor scene. Plays forty-five 
minutes. Costumes, simple ones of to-day. "V^herever this 
farce is presented it is received with the g-reatest enthusiasm 
They are all star parts. 

Box and Cox. Romance in real life, in one act, by J. 
Madison Morton, author of "Poor Pillicoddy," "Betsy Baker," 
etc. Two male, one female characters. Plays thirty-five 
minutes. Plain every-day costumes. One plainly furnished 
room. There is no other farce that has been given as often 
and as successfully as "Box and Cox." It always keeps an 
audience in a continual roar of laughter. 

By Special Desire. Drawing-room monologue for a lady 
in one interior scene. Usually plays fifteen minutes. The 
usual evening or afternoon dress can be worn. This is best 
g-iven by one possessing a simple unaffected style. 

Cool as a Cucumber. Farce in one act, by W. Blanch- 
ard Jerrold. Three male, two female characters. Plays fifty 
minutes. Parlor scene. Costumes of to-day. Star part for a 
dashing young- comedian, with other characters well-drawn. 
The play is rich in opportunities and dramatic situations. 

Cricket on the Hearth, or, A Fairy Tale of Home. 

Drama in three acts, dramatized by Albert Smith from Charles 
Dickens' story of the same name. Seven male, eight female 
characters, besides fairies and neighbors. Two interior scenes. 
Costumes of fifty years ago. Plays two hours. Invariably 
witnessed with enthusiasm. 

Daughter-in-Law. Comedietta in one act, by Mary 
Seymour. Four female characters. Plays thirty minutes. 
Interior scene. Modern costumes. This is a first-class play 
for a curtain-raiser or to give in connection with a broader 
farcical comedy. It is very refined, but spirited. 

Fast Friends, Comedietta in one act, by R. Henry, 
author of "A Narrow :escape,' etc. Two female characters. 
Modern costumes. Plays twenty minutes. Interior scene. A 
very amusing little play, which is always well received, where- 
ever given. Full of action and bright dialogue. 



8 THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOBtit 

Gringoire, Pathetic play in one act, translated from the 
French of De Banville by Arthur Shirley. Four male, two 
female characters.. Interior scene. Louis XI. costumes. Plays 
forty minutes. Nat. Goodwin has made this a most successful 
play in his repertoire, but it is also easily given by amateurs. 

Hamlet. Trag-edy, by William Shakespeare, arranged va 
five acts by Mr. Wilson Barrett. Nineteen male, three female 
characters'. Plays two hours. The action of this edition is 
carefully indicated, and the large clear type makes it a special- 
ly good one for students and public readers. 

Hidden Hand. Drama in five acts, by Robert Jones, ar- 
ranged from Mrs. E.- D. E. N. Southworth's celebrated novel. 
Fifteen male, seven female characters. Costumes modern. 
Plays two and one half hours. Four interior, two exterior 
scenes. A thrilling drama, with strong comedy scenes as 
well. One excellent negro part. 

Ici on Parle FrancaiS. f'arce in one act, by Thomas 
J.Williams, author of "Larkin's Ivove L^etters," etc. Three 
niale, four female characters. One interior scene. One military 
and costumes of to-day. Plays forty minutes. This is ©ne of 
the Dest of farces. Kvery character is good and all goes with 
a rush. 

Kathleen Mavourneen, or St. Patrick's Eve. Do- 
mestic Irish drama in four acts. Twelve male, four female 
characters. Three interior, two exterior scenes. Irish cos- 
tumes. Plays two and one-quarter hours. The most popular 
Irish play ever written. Contains an unusual variety of char- 
acters and incidents, and it always takes well with audiences. 

Lend Me Five Shillings. Farce in one act, by J, Mad- 
ison Morton, author of "Betsy Baker," etc. Five male, two 
female characters. Interior scene. Evening costumes. Plays 
forty minutes. Joseph Jefferson and Nat. Goodwin consider 
Mr. Golightly one of their best parts. The play is uproarious- 
ly funny. 

Loan of a Lover. Vaudeville in one act, by J. R. Planche. 
Four male, two female characters. One military costume for 
gentleman, one outdoor dress for a lady, and the others wear 
picturesque peasants' dress. Garden scene. Plays fifty min- 
utes. This play affords fine opportunities to introduce songs 
and dances. 

Mistletoe Bough. Pantomime entertainment in five 
scenes, arranged from the well-known ballad by Henry R. 
Bishop. Two male, four female characters. Fifty ladies and 
gentlemen and as many children often take part, although a 
less number present it excellently. Plays two hours. Play 
gives full directions for production and costumes, 

Mrs. Willis' Will. Comedy drama in one act, adapted 
from the French of Emile Souvestre. Five female characters. 
Interior scene. Modern costumes. Plays forty minutes. A 
country jig danced under protest by two of the ladies creates 
much fun. All the characters, as well as the moral, are ^rood. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 9 

Obstinate Family. Farce iu one act, arrang-ed from the 
German. Three male, three female characters. Interior scene. 
Costumes of to-day. Plays forty minutes. Augustin Daly's 
company presented this play as "A Woman's Won't." It is 
also called "Thank Goodness, the Table is Spread." The play 
is delightfully entertaing and always successful. 

Our Boys. Comedy in three acts, by Henry J. Byron. 
Six male, four female characters. Modern costumes. Three 
interior scenes. Plays two hour^. By many, this is considered 
the most successful play ever written. Fine for professionals, 
but also easily produced by amateurs, as scenery is easily ar- 
ranged. 

Petticoat Perfidy. Comedietta in one act, by Sir Charles 
Iv. Young, author of "Jim the Penman," "Drifted Apart," 
etc. Threefe male characters. An interior scene. Modern cos- 
tumes. Plays forty minutes. Bright little society comedy, 
full of wit and very amusing' situations. 

Pygmalion and Galatea. Mythological comedy in three 
acts, by W. S. Gilbert, author of all the librettos of Gilbert 
and Sullivan's operas. Five male, four female characters. 
Grecian costumes. Studio scene. Plays one hour and three- 
quarters. Acknowledged one of the most charming comedies. 

Sunset. Comedy in one act, by Jerome K. Jerome. Three 
male, three female characters. Drawing-room scene. Mod- 
ern costumes. Plays fifty minutes. This play has been suc- 
cessful on both the English and American stage. It is suit- 
able also for amateurs. Requires some acting with reserve 
force in both comedy and pathos. 

Sweethearts. Comedy in two acts, by W. S. Gilbert, 
author of "Pygmalion and Galatea," etc. Two male, two fe- 
male characters. One garden scene. Modern costumes. Plays 
one hour. A delightful modern comedy, which ends happily 
after some misunderstandings. It is written in Gilbert's best ' 
style, which is always bright. 

Ten Years Hence. Comedy in two acts, by Mary Sey- 
mour, author of "A Daughter-in-L<aw,"etc. Five female char- 
acters. One interior, one exterior scenes. Plays one hour. 
Modern costumes. Marie is an excellent child's part. For a 
small play this comedy has a strong plot, which holds every 
audience. 

To Oblige Benson. Comedietta in one act, by Tom 
Taylor, author of "Retribution," "Fool's Revenge," etc. Three 
male, two female characters. Interior scene. Modern cos- 
tumes. Plays fifty minutes. An exceedingly lively play with 
a very amusing plot and plenty of action. The scene is easily 
arranged for a parlor. 

Who's to Win Him. Comedietta in one act, by Thomas 
J. Williams, author of "Ici on Parle Francais," "Turn Him 
Out," etc. Three male, five female characters. Garden scene. 
Modern costumes. Plays fifty minutes. A very lively play, 
and admirably adapted for amateurs. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 



CHILDREN'S PLAYS 



The object of publishing these little plays is to provide a series that require 
one scene only in each piece and which will occupy about 15 to 25 minutes in per- 
formance. They can all be thoroughly recommended as the simplest plays for 
ckildren ever published. Price, 15 cents each. 

The Fairy Blossom. 3 males, 3 females. Scene, a King's Cham- 
ber. The Fairy Blossom belonging to the queen has been stolen 
and the king vovs^s he will severely punish the thief. Carlo is 
accused, but his betrothed wife Lena will not allow him to be sacri- 
ficed, as she plucked the flower to comfort her sick sister. The 
king, who had complained about having nothing to do, then learns 
that his alms have not been properly distributed among the poor in 
a proper manner and resolves to look after them himself. 

A Home Fairy. 2 males, 2 females. Scene, a Parlor. Bertie Eger- 
ton and his wife are very poor and cannot get work. Their little 
daughter Lily is desirous of doing something to help them. The 
proprietor of a theatre, Cecil Vane, arrives and offers to make Lily 
a fairy in the pantomime, to fill the place of one who is ill. Lily's 
mother happens to be Vane's long lost daughter and they are happily 
re-united 

A King in Disguise. 5 males, 1 female. Scene, a Cottage Room. 
This is the story of King Alfred and the cakes, his sojourn at the 
neat-herd's cottage, wh'='.re news is brought to him of the overthrow 
of the Danes. 

The Lady Cecil, i male, 4 females. Scene, a Room. A nurse 
brings her own child up as the Lady Cecil, the real Lady Cecil being 
lost when an infant. They have a handmaid, Clare, to whom the 
nurse is cruel, but she is beloved by Cecil. A fairy appears and 
pronounces Clare to be the child that was lost. Lord Hilary has 
courted Lady Cecil, but vows the change will not make any differ- 
ence in his affections. 

The Little Folks* Work. 2 males, 3 females. Scene, a Kitchen- 
Thr^e little children resolve to help then: father and mother in 
hTOuae.hQld duties; they make terrible mistakes, but their parents are 
satisfied with their goodvdll and loving help. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 

The Magician and the Ring. 3 males, 2 females. Scene, a Room. 
The Lady Trevor has lost a valuable ring. She seeks the aid of 
a magician to find it. He discovers that the servants have taken 
it and he is enabled to restore it. 

A Midsummer Frolic. 2 males, 2 females. Scene, a Wood. Percy 
believes in fairies. His companions play a trick upon him, dress 
ing up and making him think he is on enchanted ground. 

Prince or Peasant. 2 males, 2 females. Scene, a Road. Prince 
Claud has been betrothed in infancy to Princess Brenda, but the 
Prince, tired of Court ceremonies, disguises as a peasant in order 
to seek someone of sterling worth in humble life. The Princess 
does the same, they meet and exchange rings and afterward in 
Coiu-t attire they recognize in each other the peasant they have 
already encountered and fallen in love with. 

Princess Marguerite's Choice. 5 males, 3 females. Scene, a Room. 
The Princess Marguerite is visited by various knights to solicit 
her hand in marriage. They oflfer her wealth, power and valor, 
but her choice rests upon Sir Innocent, who can offer her noth- 
ing but a spotless name and a loving heart. 

Snowwhite. 4 males, 2 females. Scene, a Room. The queen is 
jealous of Snowwhite's beauty and instructs a servant to take 
her into a wood and slay her. The servant pretends this has 
been done and Snowwhite falls into the hands of the dwarfs. 
The queen's magic glass telling her that Snowwhite still lives, 
she dresses in disguise, and twice attempts to poison her step- 
daughter. Her plans are frustrated, she repents and Snowwhite 
is united to Prince Florimel. 

The Sleepers Awakened. 3 males, 3 females. Scene, a Room. 
Abou Hassan, the Sultan's favorite, and his wife, Nouzhatoul, 
are hard up. In order to obtain money He tells the Sultan that 
his wife is dead, while Nouzhatoul tells Zobeide, the Sultan's 
wife, that her husband is dead. The Sultan and his wife quar- 
rel as to which is deceased and come to find out, whereupon Abou 
and Nouzhatoul both pretend to be lifeless. The Sultan offering 
a thousand gold pieces to know which died first, Abou jumps up 
and claims that he did. . The Sultan is so pleased with their joke 
that he forgives them. 

The Three Fairy Gifts. 2 males, 6 females. Scene, a Wood. A 
fairy queen grants a gift to the three maidens, Cynthia, Violet 
and Vera. The first chooses wealth, the second beauty, while 
Vera desires the j^ower to make others happy. Cynthia and 
Violet are led into trouble by their gifts and beseech the fairy 
to take them away, but Vera iz the means of teaching them how 
tbey should profit by their good fortune. 

The Two Sisters. A bright little children's play in one act for 4 
female characters. 



14 THt DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANV'S CATALOGUE 



The Midway 



Burlesque ehtertainment, based on the famous Midway 
Plaisance of the "World's Columbian Exposition, Full direc- 
tions for producing- and conducting- it upon the most ex- 
tensive plan or on a limited scale. Following- are some 
of the main features: Beauty Show, Streets of Cairo, Hagen- 
beck's Trained Animals, Javanese Village, Old Vienna, 
Casino, Japanese Bazar, Ferris Wheel, Samoan Village, Blar 
ney Castle, Art Gallery, Turkish Theatre, Esquimaux Village, 
etCa This entertainment is new, g-ood and unique. Nothing 
like it has ever been presented which can make more money 
for the work. Price, 50 cents. 



Socials 



By Ei^fie W. Mkrriman. 

There has long- been a demand from societies, clubs, 
benevolent associations and other organizations desiring 
to raise money, for novelties in entertainments. This l^ook 
supplies this want. More than a score of amusing socials 
and other entertainments are described, and every society 
and club will find some suited to its purposes. Every family 
should have one. With this book as a guide, it would be 
possible to have a different entertainment every week dur- 
ing- the winter. Among the entertainments described are 
the following: C Social, A Crazy Social, The Holidays, 
The Week, Pink Tea, Brown Tea, etc.. Phantom Social, Moth- 
er Goose Social, Old Grimes' Plaster O'Paris Figures, The 
Authors' Social, Quaker Social, Tojdand Social, A Dickens' 
Social, Mum Social, Eaw Social, Fashion Social, Conundrum 
Social, Popcorn Social, I^eaf Social, Pallette Social, Puzzle 
Social, Maud MuUer Burlesque, etc. Price, in limp cloth cov- 
ers, 50 cents. 

The Art of Acting 

By Sir Hknry Irving. 

This well-known address to the students of Harvard Univer- 
sity, now reprinted with the express permission of Sir Henry, 
called forth extended comment and universal approbation. It 
is believed to be the best brief exposition of the actor's art — the 
art of which Sir Henry is the most eminent representative in 
the world. Every person interested in the stage should read 
this little book. To the actor and amateur it is indispensable. 
Price, 25 cents. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHIN6 COMPANY'S CATALOGUE J5 

Curtain Lifted 

Or, The Order of the Sons of Mars. 

Burlesque initiation ceremony, by Frank E. Hiland. Foi 
g-entlemen. Ten speaking- characters and from ten to fifty 
members of the lodge. Scene, a lodg-e room. Costumes, gro- 
tesque. Requires an entire evening. The book gives full de- 
tails for costumes and production. The latter is elaborate in 
salutes and other formalities. Grand Hinkajink has the most 
prominent part, but Inkslinger, Boodleholder, Royal Butcher, 
Worthy Slush and William Green are important. This is the 
best imtiation of Masonic, Odd Fellows and other secret so- 
cieties' initiations. Price, 25 cents. 



Parson Poor's Donation Party 

Burlesque entertainment in two scenes, by M. H. Jaquith, 
author of "Deestrick Skule," etc. Three male, eight female 
characters. Two simple interior scenes. Plays one hour. 
Very easy to get up, costumes being as old-fashioned as possi- 
ble, but need not be consistent. Very funny and perfectly in- 
offensive for church performance . May be played b3^ young 
people, but with even greater comic effect by grown ladies and 
gentlemen. Price, 25 cents. 



Ma Dusenberry and Her Gearls 

Humorous entertainment, arranged by M. H. Jaquith, authoi 
of "Deestrict Skule," etc. First and second singing "towers" 
in the latter father goes along. Any number of young ladies 
may take part, but seven are necessary. Costumes are made 
as old-fashioned and amusing as possible, ancl while good 
voices are not necessary, ability to carry a tune is demanded. 
Recitations, songs and even character dances may be intro- 
duced without limit. Local talent of all kinds can' thus all be" 
utilized. No scenery except a stage is required, and the 
'gearls" furnish the orchestra. Societies and clubs of ladies 
cannot find a better money-maker. Price, 25 cents. 



DIAMONDS AND HEARTS 

A Comedy Drama in Three Acts. 

By EFFIE W. MERRIMAN. 



Price, 25 Cents. 



This new play has bounded at once into a wide popularity. 
The good plot, the strong "heart" interest, and the abundant 
comedy all combine to mike a most excellent drama. "Bub" 
Barnes is a fine character of the Josh Whitcomb type, and his 
sister is a worthy companion "bit." Sammy is an excruciatingly 
funny little darky. The other characters are good. Fine oppor- 
tunity for introducing specialties. The play has so many good 
points that it never fails to be a success. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Bernice Halstead, a young lady of eighteen,with an affection of 
the heart, a love for fun and hatred of arithmetic 

Amy Halstead, her sister, two years younger, fond of frolic 

Inez Gray, a young lady visitor willing to share in the fun 

Mrs. HaLiStead, a widow, and stepmother to the Halstead girls. 

Hannah Mary Barnes, or "Sis,"a maiden lady who keeps house 
for her brother 

DwiGHT Bradley, a fortune hunter and Mrs. Halstead 's son by 
a former marriage 

Dr. Burton, a young physician 

Sammy, the darky bell-boy in the Halstead house 

Abraham Barnes, or "Bub," a yankee farmer still unmarried at 
forty — a diamond in the rough 

Attorney; Sheriff 

Time of playing, two hours. 
Two interior scenes. Modern costumes. 

SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS: 

ACT I. Parlor of the Halstead home. The young doctor. The three girls 
plot to make his acquaiataace. An aflEection of the heart. "Easy to fool a 
young doctor," bat not so easy after all. The stepmother and her son. The 
stolen diamonds. The missing will Plot to win Bernice. "I would not marry 
D wight Bradley for all the wealth the world contains." I3riven from home. 

A(]T. II. Kitchen of the Barnes' farm house, Bub takes off his boots. 
The new school ma'am. "Supoer's ready." "This is our nephey and he's a 
doctor." Recognition. A difficult problem in arithmetic. The doctor to the 
rescue. "I'm just the happiest girl in the world." "I've come to pop the 
question, an' why don't I do it?" Brother and sister, "If it's a heifer, it's teh 
be mine." The sh'^riflE. Arrested for stealing the diamonds. "Let me knock 
yer durned head off." The jewels found in Bernice's trunk. 

ACT. III. Paiioi of the Halsted home. "That was a lucky stroke— hiding 
those diamonds in her trunk." The schemer's plot miscarries. Abe and 
Sammy join hands. The lawyer. "Bully for her." Biadley tries to escape 
"No, yeh don't!" Arrested. "It means, dear, that you are to be persecnt^d no 
more." Wedding presents, and a war dance around them. "It is no trick at 
all to fool a young doctor." 



PLAYS. 



BEING the largest theatrical booksellers in 
the United States, we keep in stock the most 
complete and best assorted lines of plays and 
entertainment books to be found in this country. 

We can supply any play or book pub- 
lished. We have issued a 120-page catalogue 
of the best 1500 plays and entertainment books 
published in the U. S. and England. It con- 
tains a full description of each play, giving 
number of characters, time of playing, scenery, 
costumes, etc. This catalogue will be sent free 
on application. 

The plays described are suitable for am- 
ateurs and professionals, and nearly all of them 
may be performed free of royalty. Persons in- 
terested in dramatic books should examine out 
catalogue before ordering elsewhere. 

The Dramatic Publishing Company, 

CHICAGO. 



iiiil 

014 386 555 1 



